Ten Long Years
by Starwatcher2018
Summary: Compilation of Love Never Dies related chapters, which may or may not come together as a cohesive whole. Some were inspired by prompts - others come from questions or situations I have about the story itself.
1. Chapter 1

Destiny

Dizzying flashes of red, green, blue and yellow - the discordant organ music of the carousel brought a smile to Christine's face – easing the tension she had been feeling since agreeing to this outing. The crowds of people surrounding them followed no particular path – a young couple first pointing at the Ferris Wheel, before stopping in amazement to watch the performers – a man on stilts, a juggler. A father and mother attempting to corral their three children, each pressing to go in a different direction. Occasional whoops of pleasure – an occasional tussle. Fairs and the like – the people, the smells of cooking meat and popped corn – the noise, especially the noise – were not completely unfamiliar to Christine.

Pappa Gustave had made his living playing his violin at venues such as this. There was a sense of coming home being here, were she being truly honest with herself. And there was no reason to be otherwise.

The enormity of Phantasma left her awestruck. All of these combined brought her to a state that bordered on pure bliss. Her own happiness was reflected in her son's eyes.

Erik had built this. Erik, Mr. Y – Mister Y – mystery – such a clever man, her Erik…no, not her Erik – best not to think in those terms. Still, young Gustave, at age ten, was able to express the joy and excitement she herself kept contained close to her heart.

"Not exactly the Palais Garnier, is it?"

"An understatement – but then this is a place for fun."

"You did not think the opera to be fun?" Erik raised an eyebrow.

"Surely you are not seri…" Christine cut short her response once she looked away from the horses, giraffes, rabbits and dogs chasing one another around and around, never to be caught, to see the glimmer of a smile creasing the uncovered side of his face, revealing a dimple she had not known existed. More mysteries unveiled. Had she ever seen him smile? "You have changed."

"I have aged."

"That is not it. I have aged as well, but feel the heavier for it."

"Your marriage…"

The sharpness of her look cut him short. The topic had so far been off limits – her intention was to keep it so – for the time being.

"I left you with an incredible burden – even had you not become with child."

Ignoring his remarks, her attention returned to the merry-go-round, "Look, there is Gustave!" The spate of anger dissolved in the pleasure of seeing her son – their son – thoroughly enjoying himself. The wooden sword, a gift, one of the many Erik had bestowed on him, waving in the air at the dragon he pursued from his mighty black horse rearing on its hind legs.

"Gustave, be careful, hold onto the reins with both hands," she called out. A deep sigh suggested she realized the boy either could not or would not hear her cautions.

"That is quite a steed he chose – are you certain you do not want to ride? There are seats disguised as animals – the lovely swan, perhaps."

"Can you assure I will not become ill – the voyage here found me below deck more often than I care to admit?"

"Did no one inform you that the air and watching the horizon would quell the upset?"

"No."

"I thought Raoul was a navy man." His tone matter-of-fact, no suggestion of sarcasm. Despite his hatred of her husband – he was taking care to keep his comments neutral, if he spoke of him at all.

"As you have become aware – Raoul is not terribly interested in his family." She had broken her own rule, looking straight ahead, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Was she really saying so much? Wells of anger bubbled up from somewhere deep within, bringing a flush to her cheeks. Yet another offense to push down. This was neither time nor place, if there ever would be, to allow all the feelings roiling within her to flow freely.

"Bitterness does not become you." Erik's voice is soft, tinged with sadness – keeping his own eyes facing forward on the changing panorama the carousel presented. The movement of the wheel allowed them both an odd sense of privacy in the midst of the humanity surrounding them.

"Be that as it may – it exists. My joy is my son."

"Our son?"

Her eyes – the color of a mountain stream – threatened to shred him.

"_My son_. For now, he is mine alone."

"I will accept the _for now._"

"You really have no choice." Despite the harsh words, her tone was light…teasing. She could not deny the comfort – the rightness – she felt being in his presence again. Ten years was it? He talked of how difficult it had been for him. Believed she understood why he left her bereft and alone. Of course he was wrong – she did not understand then – was not sure she could understand now – whatever he might say.

Why had she left _him_ alone in the lair that night – leaving with Raoul was not what she wanted – not after kissing Erik, feeling his heart next to hers when she pulled him close. If only he had given some encouragement for her to stay. He had set her free – but it was not the freedom she wished for.

It had taken weeks of living under the oppressive rule of the Chagnys, planning a wedding she could not embrace with any pleasure. Raoul was already using liquor and gambling to fill the empty hours of his life. The events of that night proved more than he could cope with. Then there was the blame. The ever present blame hanging over them both like a storm cloud – never spoken or recognized in a way to dispel the darkness.

She had waited too long to return to him, to the lake, to the darkness where she had fallen in love with her Angel of Music. An angel who turned out to be merely a man. Little did he know when he told her _Destiny has chained you to me forever,_ how true that statement would prove to be. She was his as much as he was hers.

Or perhaps he did know. Ten years had given her a great deal of time to play their relationship over and over in her mind. Despite her greatest efforts to dismiss him – he was always there in the person of their son.

The boy's fascination with music – beyond the gifts one might expect from a mother with a heavenly voice, or a grandfather who could charm the sourest of drunkards at the inns where they would often stay. Gustave composed pieces of music intricate and complex, suited to someone far older – to the point where she was often uncomfortable listening to them. His curiosity about anything and everything wore out tutor after tutor – he would learn faster than they could teach.

That Raoul was unable to love the boy was no surprise. Yet, she still wished he would try – the fault was not Gustave's. Their efforts to conceive a child failed. Fate would bless her with one child and that child was Erik's.

"Why did you leave?"

His response was so quick – the four simple words were barely out of her mouth when he answered.

"I was hunted. Everything I owned was destroyed – I could not move freely – day or night – despite the pain of losing you, I was not prepared to die. Paris only held death. It was only recently I have been able to access my financial resources."

The words sounded rehearsed – or, perhaps she had simply become used to excuses and explanations. Had he hoped for this moment to explain? Had he hoped the explanation would be enough? "I could have talked to them."

"Ah, Christine – I had created a situation for myself whereby people wanted me dead. It mattered naught my sins did not deserve such vengeance."

"Because Piangi did not die?"

"Piangi did not die – Buquet was a victim of one of my traps, but it was an accident. My sin was loving you and you defending me. I could not allow you to suffer for your kindness." The golden eyes, moist with tears, plead for her understanding. "They would have killed you, too."

Pressing her hand against his arm, before resting her head on his shoulder – the first time since being reunited did she trust herself to touch him. "If you could change things?

"You would come with me…with us…to join the circus."

"Was it terrible?"

"It was necessary – and it was my choice."

"They hate me, you know."

"Not then," he chuckles. "You were asking about then."

"Now?"

"You said there was no now for us."

"I am reconsidering."

When he leaned down to kiss her – she pulled back. "I need time…"

Erik nodded, taking her arm. "Look, the carousel is coming to a stop. Come, take a ride, I am certain Gustave would approve."

"No doubt."

When they located the boy, Erik lifted her onto the ride, jumping up after her.

"You are going to join me?" The boy exclaims. "It is so much fun – you must sit on the dragon so I can chase you."

"Your mother and I will sit here and watch your pursuit of that dastardly beast."

Satisfied with the response, Gustave settles into the gilded saddle, urging the horse with his heels. "Onward!"

As if in response to the boy's command, the organ played and the carousel, along with the couple seated in a carved swan, began a new journey.

* * *

A/N – writer's prompt – quotations from POTO ❛ Destiny has chained you to me forever. ❜

This chapter is also posted under the Story "Ten Long Years." I opened a new story for LND chapters. Will continue posting to both stories for the time being.


	2. Mementos

Mementos

The simple task of unpacking her trunk evolves into a search for lost treasure. Panic rises as an overwhelming fear threatens to suffocate her as she searches each drawer of each of the three steamer trunks in their stateroom on the SS Persephone. The first was examined methodically and with the precision Christine learned over the years.

Pappa insisted on order, since their situation often required miles of walking – without hope of transport. Neatness and conservation could mean the difference between freezing, or merely being cold when no lodgings were available or affordable. Scraps of paper and matches were safeguarded from the damp. Food was rationed. Oftentimes, Gustave was paid with dried fruits and meats, hoarded for the winter months. Summer and fall were the best because of the availability of fresh fruits and vegetables.

Valuables were wrapped carefully in small parcels, then stitched to pockets inside their satchels. This was a practice her mamma taught him when he would travel alone to harvest fairs to earn extra money to spell them, when he would be unable to farm. He always carried a small kit of scissors, thread and needles with him for this purpose in addition to the obvious.

When Katrine died, Christine took possession of her mother's kit. Over the years the two traveled, her sewing skills improved to the point that the kits were not used for simple mending – she was able to turn garments or remake worn dresses into other clothing or quilts and towels. In addition to the basic tools, her box is a trove of found buttons, ribbons and appliques – many with their own memories attached.

Her personal keepsakes are few – a photograph of Gustave found a frame when she began dancing at the Palais Garnier. A gift from Madame Giry. Pappa's violin, a simple gold chain, her mother's wedding ring…and the sewing boxes are all she has of her past.

The violin belongs to young Gustave now. The photograph is in her carpet bag – the ring and gold chain with her other jewelry, such as Raoul had not already sold. The mementos from her parents not worth his pilfering. As for the other jewels – they were never hers to begin with – so are not missed.

"Where are they?"

Although there is no reason she should expect to find them there – as it contains Raoul's belongings – the second trunk is dispatched with greater frenzy. Finally, the last trunk is rudely tipped over with the kick of her heel, scattering the clothing, shoes and toys that are Gustave's.

No small carved boxes carrying the scent of the cedar reveal themselves.

The effort of her search leaves her exhausted, crumpling to the carpet of gold and crimson wool, finally giving into the tears that threatened from the moment she opened the first drawer of her personal trunk to find the two sewing kits missing.

"The boy is settled in with his nurse," Raoul says, coming in from the passageway, tossing his bowler hat onto the double bed. "Good god, woman – what have you done?"

"What have _you_ done? Where are they?" Looking up at him, she rubs the back of her hand over the once carefully applied rouge now streaked with dark rivulets of tears mixed with kohl. "I trusted you to keep them safe, and you could not even do that."

"Where is what?" Grabbing her by the arm, he pulls her to her feet and shoves her toward a Chippendale dining chair. "This room is a disaster. Your hair is mussed and your face… Could you have not waited for the maid?"

"You said not to be concerned about packing – that Eloise would take care of everything," she says. "You told me to practice – that it was important for this Mr. Y to be please with my singing. So I trusted you."

"Come in," Raoul responds to the knock on the door.

A young woman, of, perhaps, eighteen years, dressed in a drab brown dress stands in the doorway – her eyes widen at the disarray in the room.

Christine stands – moving away from the table, wiping her face with a linen handkerchief.

"What is it?" Raoul asks.

"I came to unpack," Eloise says. "The young Vicomte is settled with his violin." Her eyes travel to the toys strewn on the floor. "I am pleased to see his belongings are with you – I shall have his trunk removed…"

"Leave it," Raouls says. "I shall see to the transfer."

Nodding her head, the girl turns to leave.

"When you were packing my things – did you recall seeing two small boxes?" Christine asks, attempting to re-pin her hair, and straighten her clothing. "They were in the drawer with my jewelry." A sharp look passes to Raoul.

"Yes, Vicomtess. I asked the master if I should pack them," her dark eyes shift to Raoul, who turns from both of them to look out the porthole. "He asked what they were and I opened the boxes to show him the sewing things."

"They were old," he interrupts. "I told her they were unnecessary and to leave them – you would not be doing any mending."

"Please come back later, Eloise," Christine says. "I am certain Gustave would appreciate an audience."

Once the door closes behind her, Christine says, "You will send a wire to the house and ask they be sent to me at our hotel."

"They are no more – I threw them away."

"They were mine."

"You had no need of old sewing tools and useless odd and ends."

"What do you know of my needs?"

"The past is dead, Christine," he says. "I thought this would be a new beginning for us."

"You cannot destroy the past by throwing my possessions away." Her eyes are hard, the black and red streaks present a fearsome visage.

Raoul steps back, visibly shaken. "I only thought…"

"What you thought was you could not pawn them to pay one of your gambling debts. What do you propose to dispose of next? Gustave?"

"What do you mean?" Cocking his head, his brow furrows.

For the briefest of moments time stands still – her heart stops beating and fear grips her gut like a vise. "Nothing."

"It is not nothing – why would you say such a thing?" A few steps are all he needs to reach her, grip her arm, press his fingers into her flesh.

"If my voice did not provide for your needs, you would dispose of me – why not our son?" She hisses – calling on all those lessons long ago to control her breathing and her nerves. "Those kits were mine – my father's and mine. You had no right." Jerking her arm from his grasp, she glares at him.

"Christine, I am so sorry." His gesture to take her shoulders, to console her is rebuffed. The soft blue eyes shine with welling tears.

"You are always sorry." Kneeling down, facing away from him, she repacks Gustave's trunk. "He will need his things. Go find whoever it is who can take this to him."

"Christine."

"Go."

What is happening to her? Why did she say that to him about Gustave? Why open that topic again – long buried…or so she thought? The boxes – he could not leave well enough alone. The ending was always the same – harsh words, physical abuse – then the apology and tears. Not for the first time, she wonders why she agreed to this journey.

* * *

A/N - In response to a writing prompt - "I trusted you to keep them safe, and you could not even do that."


	3. A New Moon

A New Moon

The stars shown particularly bright – no competition from the Moon – the lesser light, but overwhelming when compared to the tiny gemstones of the heavens. In her new cycle, preparing new beginnings to be revealed over the next month. The darkness of this seemingly moonless sky allows the stars to be the center of the universe for a time. Unless you knew of their patterns, they appear to be a random scattering of diamonds on black velvet.

Thinking back on his studies of astrology during his time in the East, he is able to pick out the constellations – Pisces would soon become Aries – spring is coming. Lovely Venus, not a star, but shining just as bright, nonetheless. The Evening Star, the planet controlling love and romance, or so he was taught. There she is looking down on him, just a speck, star-gazing, in his hiding place atop the Palais Garnier. How many times has he ventured up here – to find some release from the pit where he spent most of his time – before she entered his life?

The sense of retreat ended abruptly, for here is where he was shattered. Nothing in his life prepared him for the rage and despair he experienced the night Christine betrayed him – making her plans with the boy – not even thinking to say farewell.

A bitter laugh rose in his throat – New Moon – new beginnings. God, how he dreads this new beginning. How he hates turning the page. How he wishes he could turn back the clock. Go back to the time before the madness overtook him. But had he not gone mad, she would not have kissed him – opened that old wound, yet, in that, finally allowed some odd healing to begin.

There were moments, when hating seems the easier route. Loving her damned him to a humanity he was not familiar with. Hard as he tries, though, he cannot envision another outcome to that night. His life has to be rebuilt and there is no place for Christine – either loving him_ or_ hating him.

When she turned to come back – for a brief moment, he thought she would stay, leave the boy. Miraculously accept his wretched self, but who knows what life would be left in him once the mob reached them in his house – his poor wrecked house. Or for her – if they did not kill her outright – she would be ruined.

No, he had to let her go, completely – that was love. He hates love. Why did he have to learn to love? Damn you, Christine Daae.

Adele told him to be prepared to leave at dawn. Cast out herself thanks to the boy – the young Vicomte. The bastard accused her of helping the Opera Ghost through all the mishaps at the Palais – befriending the murderer – even though he killed no one – not here, not now. Buquet was an accident, Piangi fainted. Yet, the mob still came for him and threatened her and little Giry.

With the money he had on hand, she arranged transport for the three of them to America, with some to spare. Somehow his violin was undamaged. A duffel filled with what books he could salvage and comfortably carry, his ivory chess pieces, a medical kit of surgical instruments, wrappings, herbs and medicinals – a buckle from Christine's shoe – found in the rubble – the only memento he has of her – were what he would use to build a new life. The Shah's jewels would be held in abeyance for the unknown future. More hiding and running, but he was not prepared to die. Somehow death eluded him yet again – what this new reprieve meant, he did not know.

Adele provided a bedroll and clothing pilfered from costume storage for him. His once pristine wardrobe of fitted suits and white shirts, exchanged for shirts of flannel and trousers of rough wool. Surprisingly, he enjoys the feel of the fabrics reminiscent of earlier times against his skin. The porcelain mask, safely tucked in his duffle with his dark wig, exchanged for a longer one the color of straw, also from the theater's store of illusion and make believe. The length of the hair covers his deformity and with a wide-brimmed felt hat, a pair of fake spectacles, he found he could walk in public with less attention – but where was he to go?

So with one more night in Paris, he watches his city from atop the opera house – his opera house. One more night to don the black woolen cloak with the intricate beading he himself designed. He would leave it behind, where would a rough beggar obtain such a fine article of apparel? Nevertheless, for a short while, he could still be the opera ghost. Then dawn would come and he would see what the new Moon would bring.

The room, appointed with elegant carved mahogany furnishings and heavy deep burgundy fabric covering the two tall windows and the double bed, was oppressive and particularly confining. The smell of mothballs pervasive and irritating, even with the addition of the vases of roses Raoul insisted on presenting to her every day.

This was a guest room – once they were wed, she would have another boudoir connected to his bedroom by a joint sitting room. The decoration and design would be totally hers – this was temporary. Was this not better than living at Mama Valerius' flat or, as he came to learn, her room below the opera house, after all?

His outrage at learning of this displayed a part of his nature unfamiliar to her. Even when he cajoled and coerced her into assisting with Erik's capture – never did his anger flare.

"You lived with him – in that…hell hole?"

"I would stay some evenings – not living there, exactly."

"Did he…?"

"No! It was not like that. You would not understand."

"I understand perfectly."

"It is over Raoul. Please. I am here with you. Is that not enough?"

At first, Erik's house did seem odd – he was so eccentric – the music room with the organ and candles. However, the actual living area was warm and comfortable – more in tune with the home she had as a child. The bedroom he provided for her was light, almost airy. The choices he made for her – furnishings, clothing, the smallest appointments, like the silver-backed hairbrush – were items she might have chosen for herself.

What was she doing here? Erik knew her. Knew her heart, her music, her dreams. He set her free to be with Raoul, but she was not happy. Was this not what she was supposed to want? Pappa would be laughing right now. "Perhaps we could make coats from those draperies." When did either of them seek comfort and money over the ability to wander at will? Harsh though it was at times, the freedom was in her blood.

Pulling the drapes open, unlatching the window to step onto the small Juliet balcony, she gazes up at the dark sky. A new Moon. The street lamps offer small interludes of light in the darkness black as pitch. Pappa would light a lantern for nights such as these – most likely, though, if outside, they would find a copse of trees or a small cave and light a small fire and not risk walking by night.

The darkness and being alone do not frighten her – daylight and people were harsher in her experience.

"I have to know if he is truly dead."

That was the rumor – a body was found in the Seine – the fish already having their way, positive identification was impossible. The passion of the rabble dimmed and the body gave them the excuse to stop a hunt they were bored with. In truth, many could not recall what all the fuss was all about. Except for Raoul, of course. She sees the fear in his eyes during times when he thinks her unaware of his gaze. Smells the fear on his breath – often carrying the scent of brandy. If the Phantom is alive – Raoul will always be in a state of waiting.

Changing from the lavender silk dressing gown – a trousseau gift from Raoul's sister, Celine – into her blue cotton print dress, she packs her few personal items in her carpet bag. Pappa's photograph, his ring and a fine gold chain, as well as her two sewing kits. The diamond ring Raoul gifted her for their engagement is tucked into the top drawer of the vanity.

Unsure of what is to come, she wants to seek Erik – free from any reminders of Raoul. If he is not to be found, she is still uncertain whether she will return. A frightening thought, but a consideration. Would Erik want her to stay – if not, where could she go? Those decisions are for later.

The mansion is dimly lit with gas lamps in the hallways – silent except for the ticking of the grandfather's clock in the lower foyer. Raoul bade her goodnight over an hour ago. Using the backstairs, she finds the breakfast nook. Unlocking the French doors, she steps outside, closing them softly behind her. Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she makes her way to the front of the house, keeping in the shadows as she hastens down the street toward the Palais Garnier.


	4. Old Friends

Old Friends

"Maman, can we go see the park? Oh, please." Gustave bounces his way around the sitting room from a gold brocade settee to the royal blue velvet chaise longue and making several passes around the grand piano, before flopping at his mother's feet.

Large vases of flowers sit on every flat surface – almost to excess, but at some point a restraining hand appeared to take control. Some lovely pieces of statuary, a few odd pieces she would examine later, and French doors leading to a small balcony complete the elegant room.

More concerned with the song Mr. Y sent her than the décor of the room, she concentrates her attention on the libretto sitting of the music desk, fingering the keys, she sings the melody almost to herself, continuing to test her voice with the notes as written. Grateful for Raoul's insistence she rehearse as much as possible.

Despite the disdain received from associates of the de Chagney family – and the family itself, truth be told – she continues to perform at special events. Invited more for her infamy than her voice at this point. Not that the notes were wrong, her voice was still strong and clear and technically correct. The proper student of a master teacher would not allow her to become lax. Music simply no longer fills her soul as it once did.

Seeing Madame Giry and Meg today only reminded her of how different things were now. Madame had changed little – in appearance or manner – beyond the anger, Christine sensed was roiling beneath her cordial if cool reception.

Meg, on the other hand, was almost unrecognizable – harden by what, Christine wonders. The tiny blonde ballerina who once reminded her of the cotton candy Gustave insisted be purchased on their way to the theater. Her friend who loved everything pink and could make her laugh when the sorrow of Pappa's death threatened to drown her. There was no joy in her welcome – again buried anger seething up despite her best efforts.

The mention of the song – that she was to sing an aria – hit a sour note in the other woman – no longer a girl. The costume, perhaps showing more skin than the ballet costumes from the opera house, accented Meg's figure to full advantage. Christine could understand how she was the star of this place of fantasy and fun. Aware, too, that her old friend might wish for another dream – of being prima ballerina for the Palais, rather than this more common entertainment.

For herself, she found the energy and the colors and noise exciting.

Ten years – what changes have you wrought on all of us.

Strange they should be here – the venue where she would sing this new aria for an enormous fee, if Raoul's words were true. All travel arrangements paid for – plus the fee – for one night. A random thought crosses her mind, but is dismissed – along with the other random thoughts dogging her the entire journey.

"Later, my love," she responds. "Go to your room and change your clothes, I need to work on this song for a bit. The composer has presented quite a challenge for your mother."

"Oh, you can sing anything," he scoffs. "I shall find Eloise and unpack."

"Good boy."

The Vicomte was no longer the eager young man she recalled from Paris. The bags under his eyes and sallow complexion suggest a level of dissipation she is very familiar with. Many things about Coney Island were reminiscent of Paris – lust, over indulgence in all manner of intoxicants – alcohol, cocaine – and gambling. The toys of those with more money than they could spend responsibly. The life of leisure giving them no reason to do or be anything substantial, so like the Vicomte in front of her, they rot from the inside.

She smirks at the change that came over him when he realized he made a deal with his personal devil. One could not blame him – he came close to dying. Foolish bravery took him to the lion's den and he escaped – with the girl of all things. From all appearances that escape was the closest those two would ever be.

Christine Daae – the soprano of the century.

Erik would never speak of that night, but he changed as well.

Working the fairs, buying a small show of his own – then this. She worked alongside him – they made a good business partnership. A kind of serenity settled over him – being with others who suffered as he did with deformities – oddities – human cast offs became his friends and he created this place for them to be safe.

Still he kept to himself, becoming more restless by the day, until a few months back. The spark, dimmed when the left Paris, came to life again. Music consumed him again – not the vaudeville he created to entice those who found the entertainment at Phantasma to be to their liking – but beautiful, lyrical songs. New, even to him.

Now_ she _was here. Did Christine know who Mr. Y was? Raoul seemed surprised – based on his reaction, Adele suspects he would not have made the agreement were he aware.

What of Christine? She likely relegated the thought to somewhere in her mind where she would not think about how this arrangement came to be. Reality was never her strong suit. Angel of Music, indeed.

"Christine has been visited by the Angel of Music, Maman."

"What are you talking about?"

"She told me – he comes to her when she is alone and teaches her to sing."

"So that is what he is calling himself these days."

"I do not understand."

"Just pray he only wishes to be her teacher."

What was he up to? What did he want – expect to happen?

He threw his life away for Christine once – now, however, she has a stake. Too much time and too much effort have been expended building this empire for a love-sick, former phantom to toss what she helped create away for a woman who refused him.

Old friends.

"Why?" Meg pushes through the door to her dressing room, pulling off her wig, throwing it at the mirror of her vanity. The costume torn off her body, the sound of the beads hitting the floor like a freak summer hailstorm.

Heavy tears fall from the deep blue eyes, their once bright light dimmed from the life she now lives. Her mother used to protect her from the groping and grabbing of the patrons who haunted the rehearsals at the Palais Garnier. Now, their attentions were encouraged.

Grabbing a cloth from her dressing table, she wipes her eyes, the mirror reflects a ghost. "Little Giry where have you gone?" Sitting down, she pulls a jar of cream toward her, slathering a heavy layer on the skin no longer fresh and young.

How could he do this to her – to her mother? Everything was fine – he was even writing better music for her – not the burlesque trash. Mother said so. Just give him time – he is shy, not accustomed to the affection of women. So she was patient – she waited – she sang the songs and danced the dances – the trashy music the crowds loved.

Of course, the music he wrote late at night was not for her. _She_ was here. The music was for her – the music was always for her.

Wiping the cream from her face, she puts on her swim suit. Grabbing a towel, she leaves the room.

"If anyone is looking for me, I am going for a swim," she calls out to no one in particular – if anyone is even listening.

Dead, she said he was dead. The balls of his hands press against his temples. Or did she? She said he was gone. Not the same thing. Apparently not, judging from this contract. The idiot reporters, for all their gall, have it correct. He lost his fortune and Christine still sings beautifully – thankfully – keeping their heads above water. But not as she had that night when he rediscovered her. Even he can tell something was lost to her that night.

The Angel of Music – she told him it was he – the reason she sang as she did. When he died…left, so did something inside her.

Fear of what she would say, kept him from asking where she went that night.

"Was he there?"

"Who?"

"You know very well who."

"He is gone. Is that not what was reported?" Turning away from him, she returned her cloak to the armoire. "I needed to get some air – wedding nerves."

"You could have been accosted."

"But I was not," she said, "I am fine, if tired. I think I should like a bath."

"We are expected at the marais at 5 – do you still plan to marry me?"

The look in her eyes frightened him – first she focused on some place beyond him, past the French doors, then shifted her gaze to her carpet bag, lying on her vanity. His breath bated, afraid to make even the slightest sound.

"Yes, of course, Raoul," she said, returning her attention to him…present in the room again. "I am fatigued, however, and would like that bath and, perhaps, a short nap." Walking to him, she presses a kiss on his cheek. "Is there not some superstition about the groom seeing the bride before the wedding?"

He should have known. Her reaction to his leaving those damned sewing kits behind. When she retired to her bathroom, he opened the boxes. Frowning at the poor tools, he could not see what her attachment was. Riffling through the larger box, he found some cuttings of heavy, black wool emblazoned with fine jet beading. A braided cloak fastener with a carved jet clasp at either end. A section of golden fringe – from a costume, he supposed. Other scraps and bits of fabric – important to her he supposed – knew…now. The cloak fastener kept drawing his eyes – the black wool.

"He is gone."

The money – they need the money. Knowing it was he, he would press for more – why not take advantage of the devil's obsession. So much for giving her freedom – the monster still thinks he has a hold on her.

The boy runs to him as he enters the sitting room. "Father, will you take me for a walk? I should like to see the rides…Maman is busy with her song."

'Not now, Gustave," Christine says. "You were going to change your clothes – now scoot."

"Meeting with Madame Giry and Meg interrupted getting you set up with the stage manager," he says. "I shall take care of that now – perhaps walk around a bit. This is not what I expected – tacky – beneath your talents."

The music, the noise – all the different people remind me of my childhood," she says, smiling at him. Holding out her hand for him to take it, she says, "This will be fun – we shall make it so. Gustave is already enamored with the place and it is a pleasant change from our everyday life."

"How do you manage it?"

"What?"

"Being so good and lovely…I do not deserve you."

"You gave me a wonderful life, Raoul. Do not be so hard on yourself."

Shrugging, he says, "I shall work on it. Do not work too long – perhaps you might like to rest before we partake of supper."

"Perhaps. Kiss me then take care of your business."

The fear has returned to his eyes – and she was certain he had brandy on his lips. This was becoming all too familiar – the emptiness inside her – her constant companion - fills with a strange excitement. Why is she happy over Raoul's discomfort? The past was coming back – unfinished business.

Surveying the room, she seeks something offering a clue as to who arranged this concert. A ribboned box on the console table near the doors he did not see earlier, catches her eye. A small card is tucked in the bow.

_Welcome to Phantasma. _

_Mr. Y_

Taking the box to the piano, she undoes the ribbon and removes the lid. The Music Box reminds her of another – years ago. As she sets it on the piano, the song begins to play.

_You have come here_

_In pursuit of your deepest urge…_

Erik stares at the automaton – his finest creation. Over the past ten years he has been perfecting his skills – spending much time on oddities and fun house images, but all the practice leading him back to her. His Christine. Not Christine, of course. A silent fraud – more refined than the other mannequin – many would believe to be real. Silent, nevertheless. However great his talent, he was unable to make her sing. The need his heart cried out for to make him whole again.

"Good-bye, my dear," he says, closing the cabinet, locking it and drawing the curtain, before moving it from the center of the room to a closet. "Even the greatest force of will and creativity could not give you real life. Imitation is imitation – having known the wonder of the real person, you are simply not enough."

His focus wanders to the sound of the steamship. The Persephone – how appropriate. He must calm himself – not rush to see her like a schoolboy – even if that is how he feels. Grateful their circumstances are such Raoul accepted his offer.

His estimation of the type of person the Vicomte would become appears to be correct. Rumors and keeping up with news of Paris through the newspapers and the chatter of visitors to the park kept him aware of the affairs of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Chagny.

Christine was singing more and more often. An indication that the money was running out – she was literally singing for their supper. The one consolation being the performances were still in places of real art – a salute to her gift. Still – as Raoul becomes more desperate he would most likely prostitute her gifts. And the darling girl would go along. He was starving for that goodness to be in his life.

How much, he wonders, would it take for Raoul to disappear?

"Mr. Y?" Squelch asks, poking his head into the music room.

"You delivered the package?"

"Yes, sir. Is there anything else?"

"No, thank you," Erik says, smiling at the man – one of the so-called freaks who befriended him when he arrived in America – helped him with the language problems. Despite his travels and knowledge of various languages, English did not come easily to Erik. Neither man was accustomed to having friends, so their easy camaraderie was a pleasant surprise to both of them. Some would call it natural law – like attracting like. There was a certain comfort in not being the only monster in the room.

"Well, then, have a good evening."

The excitement is greater than he anticipated, he wipes his hands, damp with perspiration on a linen handkerchief, before blotting the moisture from his brow, careful not to damage his make-up. The meter of his heart beats threaten to gag him. He coughs into the square fabric, hoping to regulate his racing pulse. Smoothing his wig, he takes a deep breath. He enters the elevator, carrying him to the penthouse where the de Chagnys are staying.

He hears the Music Box as the door opens to see Christine – ever beautiful in a lace, ruffled dressing gown. Her chestnut curls piled high on her head, with a single lock, hanging over her shoulder. Could she be lovelier?

The reaction to his entrance suggests he overdid the drama – did he really expect a diva? Once again her presence threatens to bring him to his knees – how could he have forgotten her innate humility? Not wishing to frighten her further, he walks behind the settee – allowing her to accept his presence. When he opens his arms to her and she runs to him, the joy he feels is almost worth the long wait – to hold her – to have her hold him.

Then the inevitable. She pushes away – the fear, the anger, the hatred. He hopes that is not the case – the first two can be dealt with – the last…well, he took that risk – encouraged it even. How could she not hate him.

Let her go. Allow her the fear and rage – ten years has not dampened her memory of that night – how he left her. He can only hope she also remembers what came before.


	5. Once There Was a Night

Once There Was a Night

The rattle of the metal door, a sliver of light rouses him from his reveries – the stars forgotten, each of his senses alert – from hearing a scratching of soft footsteps along the tarred covering of the roof to his skin, each nerve alive, hairs standing on end. The dry smell of the corridor blends with the damp of the spring night air and the slightest hint of gardenia. Dipping into his pocket for the lasso, he rubs his fingers against the dried catgut – smooth and strong as wire. Golden eyes scan the area just below him.

Breathing deeply, he mentally instructs his heart to still, his blood to slow. Perhaps he slept – it could be Adele. Do not act precipitously. Wait.

Christine is pleased to find the stage door unlocked as she hoped – a bad habit on the part of the stage manager. The assumption being the hired guards would stop anyone looking to rob the premises if he was lax – as far as she knows, the assumption is correct. Why he still maintains his position, she does not know. For now, she is grateful for his inefficiency.

Treading softly, the guards were still likely to be present, although, they tend to stay in the public areas near the valuable art work. The stage area held little interest. During the time of the Phantom, the stage was a place to be feared and avoided. Three weeks was not enough time to allay the fears, she supposes.

Using the back stairs, she climbs to the roof – a route followed many times during her months at the Palais Garnier. Much of her courtship with Raoul took place under the watch of Apollo and, as she discovered, Erik.

There was no point seeking him below – an earlier visit seeking answers found the small house destroyed, the simple furnishings turned over and partially burned along with papers strewn over the floor, still damp from water used to put out the flames. The sight of his organ tore at her heart – hacked to pieces. The act of madness and uncontrolled fury. The mob.

No blood. The rumors have him dead – but no one stepped forward to claim he committed the act. No one was able to deliver his body. No blood – no body. So she kept the hope within her. Could God forgive her were she the reason for his death – could she forgive herself? For now she clung to the absence of blood and body.

Whatever happens tonight – if he is here – if she is able – she must let him know of her concern and sorrow over all he lost.

Stepping through the heavy door onto the floor of the roof, she takes a moment to gather her bearings, propping the door open to take advantage of the light coming from the stairway to guide her.

"Erik? Are you here?" Her voice barely audible to her own ears.

"_Christine."_

A wisp of sound, the familiar voice. Her heart stops momentarily, pressing her hand to her ear, she smiles, tears fill her eyes. "You are here. Oh, you are here." Her eyes scan the rooftop, taking a few halting steps forward, she stops. Dim golden lights shine in front of her – his eyes – the rest of him shrouded by the darkness and his black cloak.

"Why did you come?"

"I needed to know you were still alive – that they did not kill you."

"Now you know."

"Thank God."

The eyes disappear, the voice is gone. The remnant of his scent – cinnamon and myrhh – lingers. The feeble light reveals nothing. For a moment she wonders if she imagined the exchange. Perhaps he really is a ghost. No, she kissed a man – flesh and blood. He was correct; now she knew. The reason she risked coming back was addressed. Erik was alive – apparently in good health – no need for her to be concerned. She could go on with her wedding guilt free. _She could._

With cautious movements, she steps lightly across the macadam.

"What are you doing?" Erik growls, taking her by the arm, steering her back towards the door. "The roof is dangerous in full sunlight – this night is black as pitch."

Pulling against his grasp, she holds her ground, pressing her hand against his. "I must talk to you. I must explain."

With a deep sigh, he guides her to the hollow where he has been keeping. Releasing his hold, he lights a candle.

"Is this where you have been hiding?"

"One of many locations – the opera house is well known to me, Christine – you must know that." Removing his cloak, he places it on the ground. "I am sorry I cannot offer better seating."

"But you chose the roof?" Removing her own cloak, she lays it next to his and sits down, nodding for him to do the same.

"Yes – to say good-bye."

"You are leaving here?"

"Paris? Yes. Tomorrow."

"Then I came in time." Moving closer, she reaches out. The urge to touch and hold him overrules any sort of propriety. Being so near, after these days apart, is a relief after the restrictions of her recent situation. The sense of freedom palpable here on top of the world – their world.

"In time for what? We said good-bye. You belong with the boy…the Vicomte," he says, pulling away, tucking his knees to his chest.

"No." Gathering her skirts, she crawls to him, wrapping her arms around the cocoon he made of himself, her head resting on his knees. "No. I belong with you." Seeing him again, touching him, hearing him – her mind is clear.

"I have nothing to give you, Christine. You must go back – you must have a life of care and protection. If they find me…us…we will both be killed."

"Please do not push me away." Fear twists her gut. "Do not shun me."

With a soft groan, he relaxes his legs and lifts her chin, forcing her to look at him. "This is what you want?"

Taking his face in her hands, her green eyes gazing into his, she presses her mouth to his.

Shaking his head free, he says, "You must go, now. Please. I am only a man, Christine, not an angel."

"I know." Turning his head to face her again. "Kiss me. I want you to kiss me." She brings him closer to run her hands down his arms, wrapping them around her waist. "Kiss me. Touch me." The escape with Raoul left her on edge, full of nervous energy. The wedding plans bored and annoyed her. She had to return to him…at least one more time. Just to know. She had to know. There is no one else.

How does one struggle against that which you want more than anything in the world? Every bit of desire and longing floods over him, through him – the feel of her in his arms, wanting him – him, asking for him to embrace her. "Are you certain? You do not know what you might unleash. _I_ do not know what you might unleash."

Her small fingers undo the buttons of the flannel shirt, slipping beneath the soft fabric to stroke his chest, stop briefly to touch the deepest scars remnants of past abuses, cousins to those that mar his entire body.

Sensing her questions, he simply says, "They are of no importance."

Raising her fingertips to his lips, she explores the distortion, tracing the shape of his mouth. When she lifts her face to his this time, he does not pull away. The kiss is awkward, his mouth opens against the pressure of her lips. The kisses she offered those days ago were more than he ever dreamed of – overwhelming him. Now this…this intimacy, feeling her tongue darting against his own shocks and thrills him.

Tilting his head slightly, he is able to bring her closer – their lips slot, tongues teasing, tasting one another's breath, striving to get closer, kiss more deeply. The thrill of their closeness opens a flood of heat throughout his body. The sensations he described in his opera fall flat compared to this truth – fantasy was now real and his own words mock him.

A simple kiss was always his deepest desire – to have another's lips connect with his flesh. To have his mother kiss his forehead would have given him such joy – would have made the torment of his loneliness easier to bear. One for now and one to save. A gesture of affection from anyone – proof that he was human – worthy of love.

Christine fulfilled his wish – more than fulfilled it those weeks ago. Her gift was so pure – he could not hurt her or her young man. He did not expect the kisses – hardly knew what to do with his hands or how to touch her – if he should touch her at all.

This…this was more, something he felt was beyond him and his simple wish – yet here she was. Not satisfied with his mouth, she continues her exploration of his body, now with her full pink lips kissing the raised skin where it has been torn and healed, moving to his nipples, licking and sucking each one, her tongue skimming his belly to his waist. Untying the rope holding his trousers, she slips her hand to his groin.

A cry rises from his heart of its own volition. Whatever control he maintained over his desire for her is gone. Removing her hand, he presses her to the ground. Her willing form lies back onto the cloaks. Her arms fall back, framing her face as he unfastens her bodice, his long fingers cup one breast then the other.

Christine unties the ribbons of her chemise, exposing her breasts. "Kiss them."

The faint light of the candle provides him a glimpse of the smooth flesh he has only imagined – fine as porcelain, like her face, the areolas round and pink – slightly puckered, inviting him to suckle.

His member already engorged from Christine's touch, aches for release. "No," he barks as she reaches for him again. "No." Softer now. "You do not know."

"I do – it will hurt at first. The girls – they talk."

"We can stop now."

"No." Lifting her skirts, she takes his hand, placing it against the opening of her drawers, guiding him to her mons.

The curls – with a texture different from her chestnut locks – coarser, like his own dark pubic hair – are already damp with her juices. Anatomy is no mystery to him – the workings of the human body – life with the gypsies provided him with an education no books could offer. Watching was both a pleasure and deeply painful. He learned to take care of his needs alone, never sharing a bed with a woman. But he remembered. The wonder of this experience threatens to overwhelm him. A rare smile breaks across his face.

"Your body is so beautiful…"

"My body wants you."

Using his fingers, he probes her opening, gently separating her folds, gently rubbing her – encouraging increased wetness. Almost by accident he touches what feels like a small button, causing her to shudder.

"There."

_Ah – the magical place – a jewel tucked away – more precious than any diamond or ruby._

Her hand joins his again, directing the strokes before releasing him, surrendering her body to the sensation of his touch.

Inserting one, then two fingers inside her, feeling her body grasp them, urging him to bring her to completion. The voice he adores encourages him, until her words become moans and whispers. With a sharp intake of breath, she thrusts her hips up with one last spasm before settling back onto the cloaks.

"Now you…not fingers…inside me."

Shedding his trousers, he kneels, lifting her legs over his arms. Christine takes him in her hand and guides him to her. Modulating his movements, applying soft pressure at first, then thrusting more deeply, taking his time to judge her response. "Is this all right?" he asks as the physical pressure increases, not wishing to hurt her.

"I am fine – I feel your need. Do not stop."

With her permission, he allows himself to simply be – each movement harder and stronger until his body seems no longer his. Their bodies soon move as one. Despite his desire to prolong this duet, he is at the mercy of his body. Burying his face against her neck, he shudders and with a final thrust he cums. The feeling of her legs wrapped around his hips, her arms around his back, completes him. None of his fantasies about joining with her, is close to the actuality. Not wishing to part, he relaxes atop her – at peace.

The sound of her giggle rouses him. "Have you fallen asleep?"

Is this teasing – he is not certain. Her confidence is greater than his own_. _"You are a true angel – I do not deserve this."

"You do and I do." Breathing in his ear, she wriggles her hips. "Roll over."

On his back, he watches as she straddles him, rubbing herself against his flaccid cock. "What…"

Christine bends to kiss him, her breasts lying against his own as she continues to manipulate his member with her body. "I do not know – this just feels right and good."

Sitting up, she throws her head back, the smile on her lips and half-lidded eyes inform him she senses his phallus become firm once again.

Rising up enough to take him inside, she commands, "Help me."

Spellbound by her face – the shadows making her all the more irresistible – he responds, using his fingers to massage her clit, the sweet bud that aroused her earlier. Minutes or hours, he has lost track of time – only her own increased movement tells him he is free to let go. He waits until he is certain she has climaxed, then, once again gives himself over to his own release.

Tucking herself against his side, she nuzzles her head against his chin. "There were times when you were teaching me, I wished for this to happen."

"When?"

"When you spoke or sang…I was enchanted by your voice – it stirred something inside me. You entered me with your singing. These physical acts made the experience of you complete for me."

"You felt that way?"

"However afraid I may have been – I just wanted to be near you – everything else was emptiness."

"You could be reading my mind," he says. "Still…"

Pressing a finger against his lips. "No more talk."

Their coming together now is not rushed nor full of fervent need. Each kiss, each caress is filled with wonder – each takes the time to experience not just the body of the other, but of the two being one. Their movements, although slow and deliberate, build to join souls as well as bodies to reach physical ecstasy.

Christine closes her eyes, soon falling into a sated slumber. Even in sleep, she sings, a soft melody he cannot quite make out – her own composition. If only they could stay this way forever…forever and a day – not just a night – but it can only be for this one night.

"I love you with all my heart, dearest girl. You have blessed me in a way I never imagined. At no time in my life did I ever dream someone of your true beauty could care for me. There is nothing I would want more than for us to have a life together, but you deserve better and more. I ruined things for myself – I will not wish that on you. Better you should hate me. Return to the vicomte, to the life you deserve – surrounded by love and comfort – never to feel danger ever again."

Pulling away, careful not to disturb her rest, he does his best to restore her clothing. He pulls a small towel from his bag, creating a pillow to place under her head, then covers her with his cloak. He rises, putting his own clothing in order. Gathering his belongings, he snuffs the candle, before placing it in his duffle.

"Christine, I love you." Touching his fingers to his lips, he presses them against her forehead. Turning away, he moves swiftly to the stairway without glancing back. Afraid if he does, he will stay.

"Ah, you are early," Adele says as Erik approaches. "The cart is sturdy, the horse healthy - both can be easily sold at the port. Meg is asleep inside." Cocking her head to indicate the blonde girl, curled under a grey wool blanket within the wooden planks.

"The train would be faster, but too many eyes," he says, pushing past her to load his gear next to Meg. Turning back, his eyes lift to the statue of Apollo shining in the light of the dawning Sun. A quick shake of his head and his attention returns to Adele.

"Are you crying?"

"Surely you jest," he snickers. "A bit of Parisian dust clouding my eyes is all."

"Shall we?" Adele asks, accepting his hand to take her seat in the cart.

"Yes – best we get to Calais as quickly as possible – leave the past behind."


	6. Another Time

Another Time

How many times has she imagined this moment – not this moment, precisely – but the moment when she would see him again. Of course, she would see him again. Her soul is as bound to him now as it was when he first came to her as the Angel of Music.

Imagined and prayed that the Angel of Music was a man – the person she could bind her heart to, who would love and care for her. Music was the glue, but she was a real person – her needs were greater than what her art could provide. The Angel stirred other emotions in her – when he became manifest as a human, it was a true miracle.

Raoul commented if the Phantom did not have the ruined face, she would not hesitate a moment – would have walked away from him without blinking an eye. How shallow was that? That first sight of him terrified her – of course he would wear a mask. A man so full of life and beauty forced to go through life unheeded and unwanted because of a deformity.

How cruel was that – how cruel was she?

Why did he leave her? How could he leave her? She gave him everything she had and, still, he left. Hate turned to love, but then it turned back. Living half-dead in a mausoleum called mansion. Partied and petted – the emptiness was itself her drug – it was her addiction. If she sang, it provided some relief, but her marriage was a sham – they were polite to one another, even loving at times. What had she loved about Raoul? Oh, yes, the kindness and gentleness – his physical beauty. He deserved better. He deserved a kind, simple gentle woman who could appreciate those qualities. Her heart yearned for the darkness, the complexity – the danger. Erik.

But that was not to be.

The one consolation of her imprisonment – Gustave – her beautiful son. Throughout her pregnancy she wondered – many nights awakened by the fear he would not be whole and her sin would be revealed. It was imperative she and Raoul consummate their marriage – beautiful, sweet Raoul – hapless and helpless, drank too much on the wedding night. It would be a week before he came to her again, sensing somehow it was not he she wanted, but determined to assert his marital privilege.

When he did visit her bed, the act was a comfort to both of them, perfunctory at best. He did not think to question her lack of pain or easy acceptance of him. That would come later – after he found other outlets for his lust, his suspicions rose. For now, they understood they had a marriage – if not what both may have imagined…or hoped for – a marriage, nonetheless. They had nothing in common and were easily bored when in the other's company for any length of time. He would go off to gamble or whatever it was his friends were about.

She would knit and sew – sensing the new life within her, nesting her Mamma called it. Books and reading consumed her – she wanted to learn. Erik instilled that in her – the idea of learning. So the months of waiting for her child were filled with comfort and exploring new knowledge.

Raoul avoided her during the wait – unsure if he should be happy or not about becoming a father. The men he knew seemed little interested in their children beyond worrying about schooling and whether they could make good marriages – boy or girl. More property than human beings in need of attention. That was the role of the mother.

There was also the question – unspoken – was this Erik's child or Raoul's. Time would tell – time always told. Pappa said worrying would change nothing, so she prayed only for the health of her baby whoever the father might be.

It was snowing the night Gustave was born – dark both day and night – as if the universe was sending her a message. A child born in the darkness – craving the darkness like his father. Grateful there was no obvious sign of his paternity. His face was clear – creamy and smooth skin, lips a tiny rosebud. Eyes of blue, but the doctor told her all babies have blue eyes – it might be six months or more before they might change. The same with his sandy colored hair – darker than Raoul's, but lighter than hers. She had no idea the color of Erik's hair – years of wigs and his age left him with tufts the color of flint.

Examining Gustave from head to toe found nothing, except, except…behind his right ear, blending into his scalp, a distorted bit of flesh, as if his skin melted…and a red birthmark, the mid-wife called it, just under his chin, noticeable only if you were searching for something awry. Did his fingers seem particularly long for an infant? The doctor said he was perfectly formed – either not noticing nor commenting on the ear or the fingers. A beautiful boy with an oddly pleasing cry. As if he wished to disturb no one when hungry or in need of clean nappies.

"Come see your son, Raoul."

"He is quite handsome." His voice full of surprise, he actually smiled at the little one. "Indeed, he is most admirable for a baby."

She laughed – in relief and in gratitude – more for the child than herself. He would be accepted as a de Chagny – all they knew of Erik was a distorted face – Gustave's face was perfect.

At six months, as predicted, his eyes changed from blue to hazel – her green blended with a golden brown. "My Mamma's eyes were the color of honey," she lied. How else do you explain the strange eyes to a family with eyes in all shades of blue, but nary a brown orb among them?

As for the boy's father, she could not hold onto her hatred of him – not when she had this beautiful child whom she loved with her entire being. Made from his seed – there was nothing to hate in this boy.

Gustave was his gift to her. She wished he could know him.

Now here he is, arms open to embrace her – all the years apart mean nothing. Dear God, how she wants to give herself to him – retrieve the part of herself he took with him – fill the emptiness.

Silly man, he, to think he could create a doll to represent the woman standing before him. Oftentimes memory serves a lie of beauty and grace – his memory of her did her no justice at all. Perhaps it was a blessing, had he remembered her as she was now – he would not have waited so long – would not have waited at all. How could he not look back that night on the roof of the Palais Garnier – who knows what might have been had he stayed or had he brought her with him.

Ten long years.

Time was more than kind to her – more woman now than girl – stately, calm and secure in herself. Not the frightened, insecure creature he first laid eyes on. This woman would curry no falsehoods or schemes from him. The truth was the only thing she would abide and he would do his best to honor that. Could he entirely honor that? Trickery was all he knew.

How can he win her back?

Christine was principled…moral – he would not expect her to be otherwise. How he wanted to simply take her in his arms and carry her away – far from all of the present that faced them.

Still, in many ways, he did not regret leaving her – sparing her the challenges of the voyage, living in steerage – filled with other emigrants looking for a new life in America. Most hopeful and grateful in leaving behind the struggles of their various homelands – Poland, Germany, a few Irish. Some, perhaps, were criminals – he supposed he fell into that class.

Adele and Meg were strong through it all – they became a family of sorts and able to comfort one another – something strange to him, but not unappealing. They were all they had. Adele took charge of everything and he was happy to allow her to do so. Leaving Christine twice was devastating. If this was what a broken heart was about, then he pitied every other human being on the planet who suffered one. There were times when he wished he could have simply died – the pain of losing her drove him many times to the deck – not only for air, but the idea of offering himself to the sea seldom failed to cross his mind.

But, the women needed him. He was the reason they were on the run and could not abandon them.

Meg was a joy – her sweet spirit and gentle ways filled his heart with a sense of peace. A daughter he never thought he would have. Whatever it took, he would do his best for her to achieve her dreams of dancing and singing – being a star. Despite his efforts with her lessons, her voice had no unique qualities and, in truth, was rough and lacked grace. Still she worked hard and between the two of them, she developed a knack for singing the modern songs.

"You have sass and spunk, Little Giry," he told her. "With your dancing skills, I am certain we can create an act to make you a star, if not an empress, as I once predicted."

"Do you think so, Uncle Erik?" Her blue eyes shone at any compliment he gave her.

"Most definitely. Not opera, but you will find your niche."

Fair after fair – he was the main attraction – the man with the melted face and a voice that brought tears to the eyes of the most hardened workman. Meg's talents developed along with her body and soon she was sought out as much as he, so they were able to buy their own small sideshow thanks to Adele's business acumen.

At some point, Meg dropped the Uncle and referred to him simply as Erik – he paid no mind. She was growing up. He wondered if he should encourage her to make friends with some of the other men – he hired only respectable barkers and had a reputation for treating all his employees well. Meg could do worse than one of the managers. He would see her flirting with some of the businessmen that took to following her about and hoped that was fulfilling for her. It reminded him too much of the patrons at the Palair Garnier, but Adele was the best person to intercede if she felt Meg was on the wrong track.

So often he wished he had brought Christine – a night did not go by but he found himself longing for the sound of her voice – alone or joining his. Many nights awakening to thoughts of that last night they had together. Hearing her sighs and giggles, feeling the touch of her small hands on his body. Parts of him no one had ever touched with such tenderness – or touched at all. He relived every fragment of that night. The exercise both comfort and torment. He missed her so.

This could not go on – the monotony of his existence was worse than any physical suffering he had experienced. Everything around him was shallow and false – at least those long ago tortures were real.

He must build something where he could bring her back to him. Not some little here-today-gone- tomorrow show – but the grandest, most elaborate amusement park anyone could imagine. Phantasma became his obsession. While he designed and built the park, Adele was once again charged with the business element. He wrote songs for Meg and encouraged her to continue developing her act. Adele was getting sponsors and he never questioned Meg's role – he was building his dream – a place worthy of Christine.

All would be well. Most importantly – Christine would be here.

_"…how I loved you, I'd have followed anywhere you led."_

_"I loved you and I left you. I had to. We both know why."_

_"I will never forget."_

Embracing her, taking in everything about her – the scent of gardenias, the touch of her fingers stroking his cheek, the desire present in her eyes the color of the sea…so close, so close…

"And now?"

"For us there is no now."


	7. What Your Heart Knows

What Your Heart Knows

The dream was so real – more so now than at any other time. Dark seas, angry words, the horrible face screaming, the sound of a pistol shot, cries of horror and dismay. Try as he might, his own sobs carry no sound. _It is a dream, only a dream. If he could only open his eyes. Where is he? Why is his guardian not here? Just open your eyes. All will be well when you open them._

At last, after a fierce struggle, his lids open, his eyes take a moment to focus. The room is unfamiliar – no small lamp at his bedside to comfort him when terrors appear. Despite the fragments of light piercing the darkness through the curtained windows, he is unable to get his bearings. The bed coverings tucked so tightly he cannot move…to breathe…to call out. Trapped. Kicking wildly, he manages to loosen the bonds and falls to the floor.

Free, I am free.

Gulping in air, he sees a door, he stumbles across the room and turns the knob. Light – a short hallway. Sounds – mother talking to a man. The voice, he knows the voice. Mother is talking to the voice in his dreams. The shadow who always comes to rescue him. Is that why he did not come to his dream tonight – he is here, as a man?

"Maman," he cries, bursting into the sitting room. As she turns to him, he sees a man – a man dressed in black with a white mask covering half his face. Was this his angel?

"Gustave, what is it?" Christine bends down, gathering him close. "Was it your dream again?"

With a nod, he turns to stare at Erik, who stands absolutely still – watching. "Are you my angel?"

"Mr. Y is an old friend from Paris…" Christine chokes out.

Mother knows him, too. The warmth of recognition dispels the fear of his dream as well as his normal reticence when meeting someone new. "You _are _my angel. With a rush, he leaves his mother's embrace, running to wrap his arms around the man's waist – a real person, not a ghost – in a hug.

The touch of Mr. Y's long fingers – so long – on his shoulders is tentative – unsure. As Gustave tightens his embrace, the hands relax and Gustave closes his eyes taking comfort in their pressure on his back. The hands fill him with warmth, a sense of safety.

The horrid dream relegated once again to the place where horrid dreams lie in wait – for now, he is safe. He knows these hands – as he knows the devils and demons who torment him – the hands and soothing voice that appear whenever the night frightens him.

"Do you play the piano? Your fingers are so long – like mine."

"Gustave!"

The sound of her voice and the look on Maman's face confuses him. She is frightened, angry – why would she be angry?

"Mr. Y is the owner of Phantasma. You must show respect."

The man laughs – a deep, resonant laugh. "You have a son – a young Vicomte. I am pleased to meet you young man – and, yes, I play the piano…violin as well. You?"

"Yes, monsieur." Gustave shows him his own long fingers. Compared to his classmates, his hands are those of a grown man – nimble and fluid as they dance across the keyboard. His piano teacher cannot keep up with his demands to play more and more difficult pieces. The fear he will be punished vanishes along with the memory of his nightmare – the man seems amused, although Maman is still anxious – she is biting her lower lip and tearing at her handkerchief.

Who is this man – why is he in his dreams?

Despite his relief, he is aware he made some sort of mistake, his mother's discomfort transfers to him. His releases his hold on the man's waist. Awkward now – not understanding his own actions – except he was terrified by his dream and seeing this Mr. Y, or whatever his name is, gave him comfort.

He goes to his mother's side, eyes down, folding himself into her silken gown wishing to disappear. His fears assuaged, his manners recalled, he is unsure of what to do now. He would never have run to his father in such a bold way. His father would not allow him the closeness of a hug – not without permission – which was seldom given.

Does Father not love me?

The response was always the same – he did love him…very much. It was part of his own upbringing that guided his behavior. Outward displays of affection were forbidden.

Even when we are alone?

_Look with your heart – your heart always knows._

When considering her explanation, as he was wont to do, he realized that his father seldom touched Maman, either – or when he did, it was with a hard hand and brought pain and sometimes fear to her eyes. Such pretty eyes, but so sad.

Muttering a goodnight to Mr. Y at his mother's insistence. They walk with her arm loosely resting on his shoulders back to his bedroom.

Despite the ruckus he created and her earlier upset, his mother is different – something about this Mr. Y. Tonight her eyes are not sad at all. She seems happy. He cannot remember seeing her look so beautiful. Not that she is not always beautiful. His mother could not be less so – the reaction of people when they were simply walking down the street – stopping to stare – especially after her performances at the Opera House – informed him that there was something special about her.

It pleases him when he is told he favors her.

"I know Mr. Y, Maman, I know him." Gustave's grave tone belies the excitement stirring inside him at this admission. His hazel eyes – more gold than brown, with traces of her aquamarine, are luminescent even in the darkened bedroom. Lying back on his pillow, he tugs at the lace ruffle of her dressing gown framing her throat, an attempt to impress upon her the truth of what he says.

A small frown crosses her brow, the aforementioned pale green eyes narrow as she tucks the blankets around him, her lips purse.

_What is she thinking? Why is she not pleased?_

"Does Father know Mr. Y?"

An eyebrow quirk. "Yes, we all knew one another in Paris."

"Did I know Mr. Y when I was a baby?"

"No, my dear, he left before you were born."

Is she going to cry? Why does she look so sad again? What did he say? "I know him from my dreams." The words come out slowly, judging how much he should say. He wants her to be happy again. Perhaps telling her about his dreams of the voice will make her smile.

What is more disconcerting – the sight of Gustave embracing Erik with such trust and affection, or the look in Erik's eyes that pierce her soul? Can he know in such a brief period of time? There is a certain amount of relief in his knowing – or at minimum suspecting – no need for stories or excuses. The shock of seeing Erik tonight – evoking memories – feelings – how she wants to hold him again, kiss him…encouraging her to think of a future instead of being mulled in the empty existence she calls her life.

She cursed him for daring to intrude, but these past moments were more life than she has experienced in ten years – since he left her. Gustave gave him the reception she might have given were she still that girl in Paris. Not the automaton she has become, trained to be nobility – forced to hide her true self – always on stage now…always playing a role, even so not fitting into Raoul's world.

Raoul protected her – she had nowhere to go. It would be easy to blame Erik for her choice – a choice he made for her, not once, but twice. What happened to the girl who walked Europe with her father, living on hope and prayers that they would earn enough for food and board – at minimum food?

The girl who trusted an Angel of Music and became a diva – bowing to thunderous applause. The girl who gave herself to Erik the man. The girl who ultimately chose the safety of marriage to her childhood friend because she was weary of struggling. The courage it took her to leave the mansion that night was all she had left and when she found herself alone atop the Palais Garnier, she succumbed to the choice Erik made for her – security.

Perhaps Erik was right – something within her knew she must stay with Raoul – knew that she was with child. Had Erik known this as well?

The dreams faded over the years – her love for Gustave filled her with incredible joy and the loneliness she felt as a woman in a sterile marriage was filled with loving her precious child. Still, he came to her – not every night, but often enough that she could not begin to forget him – as if that was possible. Still, even with her father – the memories dimmed. Erik, in some way, managed to maintain a strong presence in her mind – the dreams – most often of the times she would sing under his tutelage. Other times remembrance of that night – the night of the new moon when their son was conceived. She would waken with joy – as she had done then – but as happened then, he was not there.

Now to discover her son…their son…knew him.

Oh, Erik – why did you go? Why have you returned?

So the dreams were true? When Squelch told him of the child, he wondered…his mind drifting back to that long ago winter in the abandoned warehouse, where he, Adele and Meg huddled around a small fire one, of the many stoked by those taking shelter from the snowstorm that raged outside.

The nightmares of the past no longer troubled him – now his nights were filled with memories of her – more painful than any thugee, gypsy king or Persian shah's torture could evoke. Tonight was different, her moans disturbed his sleep – she was in pain – the cries awakened him – the wailing of an infant. A quick surveille of the populace of the large room found no infants – crying or otherwise.

Over the years the dreams varied. There were times when Christine seemed to be looking for him in the old tunnels, others when she simply stood at the mirror. Dreams about the child took on a different tone – his dreams frightened him – focused on a fear of the sea and a gun. He would speak to both of them, offering a prayer for their safety, such as he prayed. _I love you._

The boy's reaction to him shocked both of them. Fear darkened her eyes – would she tell him? Was there anything to tell? Perhaps he was simply so tied to her, the night of the child's birth was reflexive on his part. Perhaps it truly was just a dream.

This was more complicated than he first imagined. The boy must be considered.

* * *

A/N - The prompt thanks to timebird84 on tumblr - #Things I Dreamt Last Night.


	8. Beautiful

Beautiful

"Do not be nervous," Mr. Squelch tells him.

"Where are we going?"

"To see the Master, of course – that was your wish, was it not?" Miss Fleck responds.

Gustave smiles hesitantly at the little woman.

"You have never seen someone so small – a midget – that is what we are called out there in the world where you live."

The laugh she offers in response startles him. Her voice is high pitched, but gruff – very much that of a grown up. Somehow he expects her to sound like the little girls he met at church. Looking more closely, he can see she is a grown woman, like Maman – just small.

"Novelties, oddities. Some of us are quite famous. The master has given me the opportunity to become famous as well."

"You live here?"

"We all live here – thanks to the Master. Here, we are the normal ones," says Dr. Gangle. Then tossed three balls into the air, keeping them flying, while he trotting alongside the others – it was as if they might get lost in the heavens instead falling back into his hands. "Look around, what do you see?"

"Colors – mostly – so many colors."

"But strange and odd looking people – you must admit."

"Different, I would say."

"You are not afraid, then?"

"Should I be? You said Mr. Y wanted to see me – he is my mother's friend."

"Precisely," Fleck says, leaping into Squelch's arms, allowing him to shift her onto a broad shoulder.

Gustave is fascinated at the size of his muscles and the ease with which he lifts her up – tiny as she may be, she is not the feather she appears when in his hands.

"I must finish some work," Erik calls to him from a two-headed mannequin, one head having come detached from his body. "Walk around a while – then we shall explore the park."

Gustave's eyes widen. At first glance, it seems the Eyrie is busy with other performers from the Park, but on closer observation, most of the people are automatons. The mirrors that line the walls distort the images, so even what is real changes into something else by simply walking a few steps. The idea of being able to change his shape and size finds him excited, wanting to experience more. Nothing is as it appears in this place.

The Trio disappear, blending into the mileau, leaving him on his own to wander. The grand piano draws him. Sitting down, he plays a lilting melody – adding simple words to his tune. "Beautiful. Floating and lovely and bold."

"Your composition?" Erik asks, coming up behind him.

"Yes – just now. This place is beautiful – strange to me, but beautiful. When I dream – not like the dream I had last night – but other dreams filled with music – those do not frighten me."

"You dream of freaks and monsters?"

"I dream of this – I do not know about freaks and monsters – some things look ugly at first, but then change," he says. "Mother says to look with my heart."

Could he trust the boy really know him? This place is the result of a life lived with scorn and abuse as his mainstay – built in homage to those days these past ten years bartering his horrid face and beautiful voice to earn enough money to build this shrine to fantasy and illusion. To have enough standing to sell the jewels brought with him from his days in Persia. Enough to repay Madame Giry and Meg. Enough to gather other freaks – giving them a home – a place to be free. Damning those who used and treated them…him…as animals – less than human.

The first audition – as it was called, perhaps, the most difficult, wanting employment to display himself – was humiliating. For all the danger at the Palais Garnier – he ruled. Inciting fear as a Phantom was heady stuff – the carnival skills he acquired as a child put to good use – providing him a home and a fortune – and a buffer against humans who did not understand a face was not a person.

Then there was the music – he had his music to ease the loneliness. Loneliness preferable to screaming, fainting women – garbage thrown at him, curses and beatings – yes, living below ground with his music was his happiness – the most happiness he had known in his life.

Until Christine.

All at once, his heart was full – there was beauty in his life. He could be her Angel and she, his. Her voice singing his music. The past could be forgotten if not forgiven.

Had the fop not ruined his idyll – he might have been satisfied with being a ghost – a mythical figure.

Left with no choice – he had to save her from that common fellow – nobility be damned.

The common, stubborn, foolish fellow.

When she first came to take her lessons from him revealed as a man, things went well. Their work together was magical – not in the sleight of hand way of his magic or ventriloquism – but a true bond between souls. She told him of her father and his stories – and he gave her a voice – the voice she deserved. That she cared for him at all was a miracle.

The beautiful man with the luxurious blond wavy hair and ice blue eyes interfered – demanded she leave him and lie about it. What had he done? Had he not done everything for her happiness?

Hard as he tried he could not completely recall that night – the night of Don Juan Triumphant. Only that he was being hunted, shot at and he ran, taking her with him. He threatened her – threatened the boy – would have happily killed him, but she showed him compassion – love. Gifted him with his first kiss – first kisses – two kisses. What he had always desired and believed he lost with his rash act. How could he force her to stay?

So she left – as it was meant to be. He did not deserve her love.

His madness, however, cost him his home, his music, his life. Once again he had to run.

Yet, she came back. Concerned enough to look for him. Once again he allowed himself to dream – for a moment, for a night.

Is this boy his son – the product of that night?

The music is a sign, of course – but that could be his mother – his grandfather.

The strange dreams, the enchantment with the oddities – what many consider ugly and grotesque. He speaks of music as I do. He sees the beauty beneath the broken facades.

Yes, that first interview – where he would be on display, led him to this moment – a possible redemption. No cages, this time. Too many years had passed, too many lives taken – he was not about to be the drone to some carny overlord. Times had changed in any event – freaks were good business.

If his heart were not already dead from the loss of Christine, this reentry to the world where he would be on display, after so many years of finding ways to make his way in the world, with the sin of his birth hidden, would likely have killed him. Or led him to kill.

The first night – the sharp dagger of the first scream thrust into his heart, real as any physical attack – caught him off guard. The rage and shame rose within him, taking his breath away – his eyes met those of the woman – causing her to faint. The look of fear overtook the audience – each wide eye focused on him – not knowing what to expect – whether to run or stay – held him, calmed him. Placing the violin under his chin, he played – their fear turned to awe. He was in control.

Bitter tears were shed later – always after.

This new world of America was much like every other place he found himself. Housing was seldom a problem – they would travel with others in the shows. Each town had places where he could find solitude – away from the women. They seemed not to mind his face – now that their days were spent in the company of others similarly blessed by the infinite mercy of their God. Adele and Meg became inured to his deformities – Meg in particular. Nevertheless, he preferred being alone – nursing what was left of his humanity.

Did the boy somehow know this? Could he accept him? His mother had done so.

_Have you let it draw you in - _

_Past the place where dreams begin?_

_Felt the full breathless pull_

_Of the beauty underneath?_

"_Yes. It is all so beautiful"_

Dare I?

The scream strikes him to the core – he misjudged the child. What a fool. Nothing has changed. This was not the real world after all. Out there, his face will always produce fear – the boy is proof.

"Gustave? I am here. It is Mother."

Last night he came to me for comfort, now he needs comfort because of me.

"He meant no harm."

His touch was almost more than she could bear – the ballet rats told her – told her how it felt to have a man touch her…there. Told her to touch herself so she would know – the first pain would go and the pleasure would follow.

There were so many times when he would be teaching and her flesh would grow warm – a gentle ache nearly drove her to take his hands from her back and abdomen to press them against her secret place. But she never did and he never tried. Now with his fingers sliding into her, wet with the magical fluid her body created just for this purpose – she understood. Tears formed in her eyes, part of the sensation her body experienced.

They concerned him, those tears. "Are you all right? Should I stop? We can stop now."

"No – no, it is fine. I am fine." Their first coupling hurt, when he entered her, she could not lie – even to herself – despite his efforts to be easy with her. The pain merged with another sort of sensation wanting him to thrust deeper and harder into her. Wanted their bodies to be one, feeling as though she could not get close enough to him, wanting to consume him – digging her fingers into his back, wrapping her thighs around his hips until everything was pure sensation and she gave herself over to the desire for release.

It was perfect – he was perfect – they were made to be together in all things. There was no separation between them – he was as hungry for her as she was for him. This was love – this had to be what love was – joined in their music, now joined body and soul.

Her last recollection before drifting off to sleep was him whispering in her ear. _Christine, I love you._

Had she told him? In their murmurings, she surely told him she loved him. He had to know even without her words. So tired. So fulfilled. So happy. The words would come in the morning. If he had to leave Paris, she would go with him – wherever that might be.

The promise of the new moon this child. Their son who screamed, as she had, at the sight of his face that first time. Oh, Erik, I am so sorry.

"Mr. Y, I am sorry," Gustave stammers, looking up from his mother's breast where she cradles his head. "I – you surprised me." Reaching his hand out, he says, "You are my friend. I…I would never want to hurt you."

Erik nods, covering his face as he turns away from the boy and his mother. His mother – who could never intentionally be cruel or hateful.

"Maman?"

Christine's eyes shift back and forth between Erik and Gustave. "Yes, I think that would be all right."

"Mr. Y, look."

Smoothing the boy's hair away from his right ear, she says, "Yes, Mr. Y, look." The distorted patch of skin on Gustave'e scalp is exposed. The ridges not as deep, nor extensive as those on Erik's face and neck, but similar.

"I have a birthmark, too." Gustave lifts his chin, pointing at the raised scarlet stain. "Yours is just bigger. Maman says people are more than how they look. Some nice looking people can be really mean."

Giving Gustave a squeeze, she looks to the Trio. "Go with…your friends. I shall see you at the hotel."

The anger is unreasonable, he knows, but the storm raging within him has been held back for too long. Seeing this child, hearing him, being with him – seeing his inheritance. "Were you planning to tell me?" The instinct to strike out is strong, his hand reaches for her throat as he has done once before. _Stop._

Christine does not move – the aquamarine eyes meet his with a plea. He drops his hand, grabbing it with his other, he bows his head.

Pressing her hands against his chest, her words soft. "You left me with son – a son you could have loved. He was never meant to be a secret – but I had no choice. So many times I wished I could tell you."

He stumbles away, confused – unsure. "I have a son." His own words calm him. "He must never know I am his father."

"But…"

"No. Let him be. Let him have his life. He will never want – everything I have will be his." Grasping her arms, he says, "Promise me." Resolution hardens his face. "Take him and go. I will not hold you to the contract – you are free to leave."

"Again you are telling me what my life should be," she says, with a sad smile, caressing his cheek. "I shall sing for you as agreed. Beyond that, I promise nothing."

His grip tightens. "You must."

"No, Erik. I will not allow you to control me – your choices have not served me well," she says, removing his hands. "I shall see you at the theater."

Pandora again offering that demon hope to taunt him. Did her words mean she would stay – would he have a family, a life with her and his son? A son…his son. A reason to live.

* * *

A/N Written with the help of a prompt on tumblr.


	9. Only for Him

Only for Him

She should have known. After years of working in the theater, knowing the nature of men – knowing the nature of this man – she should have known.

Ten years had not changed much in their relationship, although she took greater license in speaking to him, understanding his gratitude and a certain level of affection he felt towards her and Meg. He even expressed amusement when the odd vendor or investor would ask, "Are you sure you two are not married?"

During the voyage, much of their time was spent learning English. Erik knew some of the language and was proficient in several others – he was able to understand many the multitude of conversations that went on around them – eavesdropping…never engaging – despite the wig and hat and scarf he wore, camouflaging the mask as much as possible – he kept to the background, listening…learning.

It was during one of his forays through the mass of bodies he met Mr. Squelch – nee Alexander Gorlinski, a Polish refugee. Erik struck up an unlikely friendship with the bald, burly strongman based on a shared history of working Russian sideshows and their physical appearance – Squelch's body being covered with tattoos many of the other travelers found unpleasant. A former bodyguard for a Polish nobleman – he lost his position when the said noble was assassinated and Squelch found himself a suspect and found it easy to hide among the traveling shows – both as a performer and laborer.

Squelch, for his part, was a friend of Dr. Gangle – Gregory Armbruster Wright – a Briton – who was another misfit resembling a marionette on strings – the Master of Ceremonies at a fair in London. An actual student of medicine – his career cut short by the ridicule of his professors who claimed that enticing his patients to laughter was not conducive to a successful practice.

After years in the ballet brought patrons from all over the world, Adele had her share of men interested in her. Although never a beauty, she was a handsome woman. After the death of Louis, her husband, a supper now and again with a gentleman of means was not unheard of. If he was a foreigner, all the better – a long term relationship of any sort was not something she desired. With a young daughter to raise, the extra francs were welcome and her knowledge of the world was broadened, allowing her to become acquainted with the English and German languages.

The small group would gather, sharing whatever they knew of America, but most importantly having Dr. Gangle instruct them in the language of their soon-to-be new home. They spoke English to one another whenever possible – discussing their plans about when they arrived in New York on how to turn their various gifts into a way to earn a living.

"Freak shows?"

"What would you suggest?"

"Are you sure that is what you want? You all have so many gifts…"

"You forget my face...tattoos…physique. We have no choice, Adele."

"Freaks it is – I shall be your manager."

And so the little company was formed. Miss Fleck – Gloria Fleckstein – joined them at their first sideshow – a native of Yonkers – she was born into the circus, both parents midgets* – an accomplished acrobat, an expert on their new home and the vagaries of speaking American rather than English – most importantly, her bawdy sense of humor interceding when anyone was out of sorts. She, Squelch and Gangle became known as the Trio and became inseparable.

Their lives fell into a rhythm – Erik provided for her and Meg – supped with them on occasion, always making certain their material needs were tended to, but beyond that, he spent his time with the Trio or, most often, kept to himself.

Meg became a cooch dancer – her ballet skills bringing an element of sophistication and grace to the base dancing they found in the different fairs they worked as their reputation grew. When Erik bought his first sideshow – Meg was the star performer and he was gradually able to limit his own performances. As the years progressed, he became more and more withdrawn – content to create his automatons and other attractions, their success secure enough for him to start designing Phantasma.

The park was everything to her – so much so, she would use whatever means possible to keep the wheels turning – Ferris wheel, carousel, the Wheel of Fortune and, more importantly, the political wheels necessary to run the operation and pass inspections.

Phantasma was as much her creation as Erik's she believed – even more because she dealt with the everyday goings on – as any mother was with her child – she knew every concession and how much it cost to operate and how much it brought in.

Early on she hoped he would turn his physical, if not emotional needs, toward Meg. Unfortunately, the girl – now a woman, still beautiful, but no longer fresh, held no interest for him as lover, much less wife. He had no idea of her efforts at bringing new patrons to the park and she felt no compulsion to advise him. Instinct told her he would not be pleased. For all his darkness, he cared for Meg and the others in his own way and would not degrade them or allow them to degrade themselves. Adele simply saw it as doing business.

Old habits died hard for her – this was her role at the Palais Garnier – although in the old days, she protected Meg from such patrons. If her obsession with Erik did not work out, Adele hoped that one of the businessmen would support her daughter. Erik promised he would always care for them, and she trusted that – accounts were set up for both of them and grew larger over the years. But…well, men lied, did they not?

Meg did not have many years left as a dancer…or to find a husband. Of all of them, the move from France was the hardest on her. Adele often thought that her attraction to Erik stemmed more from homesickness than any real attraction. His unavailability acted as an aphrodisiac – the more he ignored her, the more she desired him, it seemed.

Life was very good that fall – the summer had been a successful financially and artistically – the show was larger and grander than ever before. Phantasma was the place to go on Coney Island and Adele could not be happier or more proud.

Why did he reopen the wounds of Paris – bringing back the very person who forced them to leave their home? Christine's presence, however, spelled nothing but disaster and he needed to know her feelings.

"We are doing fine – you did not have to bring in talent from France – particularly this singer. There are any number of sopranos right here in New York."

A raised hand and a stern look accompanied his response. "This is none of your business, Adele."

Had he used the hand to slap her, she could not have felt more injured. "What did she do to help you? She left you to go with the Vicomte," Adele argued. "We almost lost our lives and had to leave the country because of her. Yet, you bring her here…offer outrageous sums…"

"Enough."

Now this…the boy is his son. Something she never considered. Had he? The confidence about knowing him – who he was, what his life had been – dissipates with this new piece of information. The bank accounts are one thing – Phantasma is something else entirely. Phantasma would belong to this outsider – this spawn of devil and whore. The pure, perfect angel Christine Daae with a bastard child – a child whose parentage her foolish sot of a husband is likely unaware.

"Maman, did you see the number? I thought it was wonderful – showing a bit more skin, but the audience will love it," Meg said. "Do you think he watched – do you think he will like it?"

"You must forget him."

"What? What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Time for you to wake up and face reality. He is with her now. It has always been her."

"That is not true, it cannot be true."

"The boy is his son. He has betrayed us – after all we have done for him. He will give Phantasma to that child who should have never been born."

It was not as if she did not know her mother was speaking the truth to her.

"I would have given you my heart – my very soul, but you were blind to me. Why?" Meg cried.

Even being the star of the show at Phantasma – Erik had kept his promise in that regard. Despite the quality of the productions and costumes, she was no longer satisfied being constrained by the cheap, music hall ditties he wrote for her. Maman told her he had been composing again – beautiful melodies filling her heart with hope. When she asked him, though – he merely held out another piece of music called Bathing Beauties.

"I could have been Prima Ballerina, but followed you instead."

"Your mother feared for your life and hers…but I do understand your sacrifices. I wish I could have given you a career in the ballet – or marriage to that Emperor I predicted you would wed. You are like a daughter to me, Little Giry. I thought this was what you wanted – fame and fortune – your name on the lips of everyone who passes through Coney Island."

"I am not Little Giry and you are not Uncle Erik. I am a woman and what I want is you."

The skepticism in his amber eyes warned her to stop. The quirked eyebrow and barest glimmer of a smile…no, sneer…was visible on the exposed side of his face. "Really? You want me as a woman wants a man?"

"Ye…yes. Yes," she stammered, apprehension twisted her stomach.

"And if removed my mask right now – what do you suppose you would feel?"

"I would feel fine."

"Is that so? I am not so sure. You look a bit pale."

Despite the time they spent together when Meg was growing up and tailed her mother when helping him with shopping or laundry, Meg never saw Erik's face. He was always careful to have his mask in place encouraging fantasies in her young mind about what he might have hidden beneath the white porcelain.

When she was a little older, she became aware of the many men who were wounded during the Siege of Paris – a day did not go by without seeing one or several with burns on their faces, missing limbs or the vacant look of living through horrors and unable to reconcile those memories with the peace they now experienced.

How terrible could his deformity be?

The night of Don Juan Triumphant gave her a glimpse of him – but just a glimpse – enough to suggest that the damage was more than a few scars from burns or injury. Christine's knowledge of what he looked like before unmasking him for the world gave her pause. What was their relationship? Had she anticipated his outrage – this was not part of the plan as far as she knew. Raoul wanted him dead – that was clear. Had Christine actually saved his life? Why? He loved her - that she knew. Why had she not considered the possibility until now – Christine loved him

When she discovered his mask on his throne and him gone, her hope was she could find him and see him for the first time. Even as a child, she loved him, how he teased her about walking like a duck. If he could elude the mob with her assistance, it would endear her to him.

As it turned out, he had other masks – a number of them – and was careful to not be seen without.

"Have you seen his face?"

"When he was a child – in a cage at a city fair – I gave him some of my croissant."

"Was it terrible?"

Adele's dark eyes held the deep blue eyes of her daughter – her response being a pat on the girl's cheek and a deep sigh.

When Erik made his debut at the first fair they worked, he requested that none of their little group attend. "I expect there will be some extreme reactions and would prefer my friends not be exposed to whatever those might be."

Garbed in one of her mother's black dresses, the dark gray hood of her cloak covering her head, Meg paid for entry and found a place at the back of the tent where he would perform his act.

The woman's scream startled her and the jostling of the couple next to her turning away and running out caused her to lose her footing – the hood to fell away exposing her blonde curls. The crowd was in turmoil until Erik began to play his violin. The music calmed the crowd, although a few random cat-calls could still be heard. Regaining her balance, her eyes found the stage and the man she claimed to love. The mask was gone. Vomit exploded from her mouth, disturbing those around her. With a hand over her face, she ran out – praying he had not seen.

There was no reaction from him the next day or ever. Life went on as usual.

After that she never attempted to invade his privacy and would only sit outside the tent listening to him play or sing, willing herself to forget what she had seen by embracing his music.

"Yes. I love you – how you look under that mask is not important to me."

"How I look under the mask is important to _me_. I am truly sorry if you expected something from me I cannot give you. It never occurred to me I would be attractive to you…or most any other woman. My soul belongs to someone else – however she feels about me."

She believed him – both his admission and his sorrow. "Christine."

"Always Christine."

"Damn you."

"Alas, the world has already damned me."

"I love you."

"Yes, you have said that. I care for you, but not in the way you wish."

To his credit, there was real compassion in the mellifluous voice that soothed even while crushing her soul. Cruelty would have been preferable.

Despite the words being so final and absolute, she continued to hope and worked harder to earn his praise – as her mother suggested. He could change – men changed all the time. At some point the memory of Christine would fade – had to fade. There was nothing else for her now – absurd hope kept her sane. She could get used to his face – people could get used to anything – his appearance was no worse than the pigs who used her as payment for a permit or a license.

Whatever hopes she held were irrevocably dashed when Christine and Raoul arrived with their child. Meg had to admit, she was happy to see her old friend. They were so close at the Palais Garnier – confidents. Of all the things she missed about Paris, losing Christine's company was what hurt most and still longed for. Her happy marriage and a family as obstacles might deter him. Except it was soon obvious the marriage was not happy and, now, as Maman just informed her, the child was his…Erik's…and everything might be lost.

The boy must be considered.

* * *

A/N – in the late 20th century, the term midget was felt to be pejorative. During the period of LND and as late as 1999 it was in common use.

I received a writing prompt on tumblr to use the question "Are you sure you two aren't married?" For me, it gives a good idea of the closeness Erik and Madame Giry shared.


	10. The Wager

The Wager

Him.

Ten years vanished with that one word from Madame Giry's mouth. All the self-affirmations, all the assurances Christine gave him – all the whiskey, gambling and other women to help him forget that terrible night in the monster's lair nullified by one simple word.

Whiskey was the most efficient pain reliever and he sought succor in the smoked wood flavor of the Scotch the bartender poured for him.

Another night of self-pity. Well, why not – he may as well be the besotted young fool of ten years past – drunk with both love and liquor. She still loved him, or so he believed – she assured him regularly – perhaps not the person he was, but who he had been when they were children.

What happened to her between those days at the beach and when they reunited at the opera house, he had not a clue – other than her beloved father died. Whatever compassion he might have felt was lost in his lack of relationship to his own father – also dead – not truly missed because all Raoul knew of him before his passing was the absence of feeling toward his youngest child – the one who caused the death of the woman he loved. He had no understanding of her love for the dead violinist.

They hardly knew one another as adults – a few months – months when she was perhaps closer to the opera ghost than she was to him. For all her claims of being afraid – she was drawn to her Angel of Music – Erik, as she came to know him. Putting a name to the angel made him human – he preferred not thinking of him as human.

The kisses – she gave him – two kisses while he watched made him even more human – who kisses monsters? The woman he loved was kissing a man named Erik. Committing to stay so he could live? That was the agreement. But why two kisses he wondered hundreds, thousands of times these past years. He ceased to exist for her in those moments– was already dead no matter her choice.

It was Erik who released him…them. Even with that, she seemed to want to stay in the dark hell pit where Erik lived, reluctant to take his hand leading her from this place, only taking leave when Erik nodded, indicating she go. The whole affair found him a supporting player to a connection between the two of them he could not fathom.

Christine would always be a mystery to him. There was a part of her she did not share – a secret, private Christine he could never know. Often he would find her simply staring out a window, looking into the darkness, humming some song or another.

"Anything to be concerned about out in the garden? Should I call the butler?"

"Yes, but for tea – that would be lovely, darling. I should like to have some – would you care to join me?"

"I have my evening brew, thank you."

"Yes, I see. Must you?"

"What were you thinking about – looking out into the darkness? Was there something prowling out there?"

"Did you ever notice that the later it gets, the brighter the stars become – especially on a moonless night such as this."

"No, I never have. They are, of course, excellent tools for navigation. The thought never occurred to me to look at stars for no reason."

Why did he reflexively believe she was thinking of _him? _

From the first night when he saw her perform and her subsequent disappearance, it was as though she was under a spell. Even in their most intimate moments, Christine was not connected. Her care and concern were always present. She was kind and loving and, while genuine, her love was cloaked in illusion, she was performing.

He knew this well enough because of her manner with the child. When playing with Gustave or helping him study, she was free to be herself – the girl he remembered from Perros. Little Lotte – a name she hated now. "I am no longer that little girl, Raoul. We live in a different time and place now – Little Lotte would not know it."

Yet, there were moments of tenderness. "I am sorry you were hurt that night. It never should have happened." Then her mood would shift "You should never have mounted that plan. I was wrong to agree. It was not necessary for him to die."

"Did he die?"

Her reply was always "he is gone – is that not enough for you?"

"But not in your heart – he is not gone from your memory."

"What would you have me do, Raoul? I am your wife. I am here with you. What more is there?"

"Come sit by me – look at the heavens. It can be quite restful – calming."

"I think I will go out for a bit – tea and starwatching are not what I need right now."

"Another," he says to the bartender.

"You need to leave here," Meg says taking the seat next to him. Her hair and swimsuit wet from a swim. "Coffee, please – before I take a chill."

"Is it wise to swim now?"

"No crowds."

"But alone – are you not afraid…you might drown."

"I might – would that be so terrible? You are aware this is known as Suicide Hall. Step off the pier and allow the sea to wash away all your fears and woe."

"This place…"

"Yes, you should leave this place before it becomes too late."

"It is just one song – the money – then we leave."

"He will not be content with one song – neither will she. It has taken me these ten years to realize that. Everything humiliation he suffered – all for her – his normal life – such as it is…all for Christine. Do not be a fool, Vicomte. Leave now – take her and the boy – or do you believe you have already lost?"

"Pour me another."

"Of course, Vicomte."

"You."

"Me. I see you are still the pantywaist you always were."

"I bested you."

"Ah."

"She left with me – we married, have a child. Our bond is strong."

"Yes. The child."

"What about him?"

"You think he favors you? The music, the love of oddities."

"What are you implying?"

"You like to gamble? Of course you do. Would you be interested in a little wager?"

"I do not trust you."

"But you trust Christine?"

"Yes…yes, of course I trust Christine."

"How much?"

"What do you mean how much?"

"Meg is right – you should leave, but you will not. I am the challenge – the game you hunger – with Christine the prize. I believed you would take care of her – protect her. But look at you."

"Look at you – gross and ugly – a monster."

"No – the monster would kill you now and toss you into the sea. Anyone would believe you were just another poor soul finding solace in the black waters. It would be quite easy."

"Go ahead – try." An attempted feint at Erik fails.

"Make your plea – play your best hand. If she accepts you, all your debts will be paid and you will never have to think of me or this place again."

"Or?"

"If she sings – you leave alone."

"That is ridiculous – of course she will respect my wishes."

Erik hold out his hand. "Then we are good?"

Raoul takes the hand, twisting it.

"Do not try me." Erik twists Raoul's arm behind his back and grabs him by the throat, "You shall keep your life now for the same reason I allowed you to live back then. Were it not for Christine, I would crush you with my boot like the cockroach you are." Pushing him back onto the stool, Erik pats the vicomte on the back, his voice floating on the air behind him as he leaves. "Devil take the hindmost."

Cold sober – the numbing effects of the Scotch gone – hours of drinking leaving him sick and weak – smelling of rancid sweat…the taste of bile backing up in his throat. "Christine."

Why on earth did he agree to this foolishness? In their ten years together, they have never been farther apart. Why on earth would she choose him now however kindly he asked? She barely chose him then.

Throughout his life, he always beat the odds until he did not – the night below the opera house changed all that. Now he was betting on Christine's loyalty to him, their marriage and their son – if he was _their _son.

Erik epitomized the devil. If one interpreted the expression in a certain way – the devil would be the loser. One could only hope.

Why on earth did he suggest this foolishness? In their ten years apart, she had grown closer to the fop – she was his wife – sharing a home, sharing a bed. Why on earth would she choose him now? She told him as much. _For us, there is no now._

But, she would sing and she suggested, he was certain of it – she suggested he would…could…might be a part of the boy's life. His son. Thankfully dismissing his insistence the boy not know. Could he be a good father? He would like to try. The swelling in his heart when she confirmed his suspicion was one of the most amazing feelings he ever experienced. The only instances coming close were when she kissed him – not once, but twice during that terrible night…and when they made love – creating the boy.

How he loved her. Did she still love him? She claimed to have loved him then? Was there any love left in her for him? Take the love that you deserve. Some might say he deserved nothing.

Why could he not be satisfied with her promise to sing, leaving the door open for more? Why had he set up a dangerous scheme?

Because you are afraid, you fool.

His power over her had waned – that much he knew. She was no longer the innocent, shy little sparrow. Part of that was his doing with her vocal training, giving her a confidence she never had before. Sadly much of it may have been the result his abandonment of her on the rooftop. That he had any hope at all was a miracle.

His trust in God was sorely lacking – so miraculous occurrences were not something he counted on. Hope, though. She had given him hope. So he would capitalize on it and the hope she would not find out – or forgive him if she did.

He was playing the hand he had – his…their music and being Gustave's real father.

Raoul would play his – marriage and having been Gustave's father for those ten years – something not easily tossed aside.

Christine was nothing if not loyal.

Devil would take the hindmost – he could only hope this time he would elude the demon's grasp and come out the winner. She chose him twice, but he set her free – or so he believed. Would she risk a third time?

Why had she given him any hope?

Because you love him, you silly girl. The aria, the title – Love Never Dies. You have been living your life waiting for him to somehow make his way back to you.

But what about Raoul? You love him as well – you have loved him longer than anyone, except for your pappa. First love, tales of the North, Little Lotte, the red scarf and the beautiful boy who ran into the sea to retrieve it for her. The scarf her mamma had crocheted before she died. Childhood fantasies.

Life was supposed to have been so good for them – she knew that was why Erik did not force her to stay the night of Don Juan Triumphant and later leaving her on the rooftop. His act of love was putting her in Raoul's care.

Oh, Erik – what a mistake that was.

Raoul could never let go of that night – his fear…his impotence. Or the night I left to find you…the knowledge that Gustave was likely not his child. He never asked or suggested Gustave was anything other than theirs – but the way he watched the boy, particularly when he was playing the piano or composing or telling the tales he had conjured up to entertain them at supper – signaled he was unsure.

How could she leave him when he needed her so?

See what you created with your sense of honor, Maestro?

At the moment, she had no idea where her husband was – likely a bar. When she went off to look for Gustave, he disappeared as well. She supposed if he was in some real difficulty, Erik would know about it and tell her. Or perhaps Erik was the trouble. Their bond to one another was almost as strong as hers to each of them. A bond of hatred and jealousy having nothing to do with her, but with their innate characters – appearing to be so different, yet, so much the same.

Neither really knowing the love of a parent – although Erik, by far, had the most tormented life. Raoul was privileged and spoiled, but neither of them was loved. Was that why she was so important to each of them – the one person who truly cared? Erik had survived on his own – created his own world not once, but twice that she knew of. Raoul was, perhaps, the most damaged because he never learned to take care of himself. Even now, although he had lost so much – he was not without means – the family would not let him suffer the indignity of losing his title so he retained the de Chagny name and an allowance, although privately he was scorned. Their marriage was blamed.

Was he seeing this as an opportunity to save face? Prove he was a man – not just to her, but to Erik. None of them would forget the noose – Raoul still wore a scar from the garrote. Would Erik have killed Raoul had she not kissed him?

So many emotions pulsed through her when he threatened Raoul's death – hate, revulsion, disgust and as if in musical counterpoint – love. Everything about this situation was a contradiction. Erik was the villain; she the damsel in distress; Raoul the white knight – but it was Erik she desired. She prayed for strength – then kissed him –not once, but twice. Love won out over the darker emotions. It simply felt right.

The question would rear its head over the years. The answer was always the same – she was destined to kiss him – she only needed the courage to know for certain where her heart lay. How she wished she had not left with Raoul. Wished neither man had suffered from her perfidy of spirit. Could anything be salvaged?

Love Never Dies – does hatred?

She would sing the aria – nothing could stop her – everything in the song spoke to her. Perhaps the singing would help her decide what to do. Music was the only thing in her life she could trust. This was Erik's music she knew, but even so…her soul would tell her which love would continue and never die for her…or Gustave.

The difference this time was her son – for all intents and purposes he had no father. Raoul, either through the ignorance of his own life or some suspicion that Gustave was not his own, was no father. Erik likely could and would be a father – they already bonded – she would determine how far that would go, if at all.

Their lives would be so different from anything either of them had ever experienced. Erik was unpredictable at best – it would serve no one if she forgot the terror and fear he could evoke if prompted. Had ten years tempered his demons? Would the short time they spent together now be sufficient to determine a future?

One piece of missing information was how Erik would try to manipulate her and the situation. Whatever he originally had in mind once he got her here had long gone awry. The idea brought a smile to her lips and a small chuckle – the first she had experienced in quite a long time. Her only hope was that it be such she could forgive him one more time if it came to that.

The boy must be considered.


	11. The Soprano and the Ooh La-La Girl

The Soprano and the Ooh La-La Girl

"Still an early bird, I see," Christine says, an eyebrow raised at Meg's bathing outfit as she pushes through the stage door toward the dressing rooms. "You were always up and about before the rest of us."

Glancing around the vacant backstage area – Meg says, "I could say the same for you – already gowned and coiffed for the day," eyeing Christine's tailored pale rose linen dress with lace collar and cuffs – hair piled atop her head with a single lock resting on her shoulder.

"I woke her up – I wanted to see the rides," Gustave says, his grin wide, the amber and green eyes sparkling.

"I told him it was much too early, but he insisted," Christine says, squeezing his shoulder. "He is quite the director, particularly when he is enthused by something."

"Like your father?"

Gustave shakes his head emphatically, "No. He…"

"Gustave, we do not gossip, remember?"

"Yes, Maman." He bows his head.

"Well, being a good director is a wonderful talent – wherever your gift came from."

The years were not kind to Meg. The bright blue eyes always full of mischief had dulled – dark shadows unnoticed yesterday – likely covered by make-up – stand out against thin pale cheeks once full as ripe peaches. How difficult it must have been for her to leave France and her friends. Of course, she was one of those friends – both their worlds turned upside down by the events after _Don Juan Triumphant. _How might they have fared had she traveled with them to America?

No one knew what happened to Meg and her mother – although once she became aware that Erik survived the manhunt, she felt the three were together. If one was a fugitive, so, then, the others must be as well.

Raoul told her Adele directed him to Erik's house – Meg had offered to guide him. Giving this information to the police put them in jeopardy – both lost their positions with the opera. Upon returning to the company, she learned when the body believed to be Erik was found in the Seine, the pressure was removed, but they were still shunned.

How did Erik reconcile himself to trusting Madame again after that betrayal? Or was it a betrayal? The greeting he gave Raoul suggested he was expected. Months earlier Meg assured her she should not be afraid. Still, would Madame willingly send Raoul to act against Erik?_ Was she afraid for me? Or just want me out of the picture? Was that her rationale? _

Even more than her talent and for all the hard work at the conservatory and working in the troupe, Meg was still somewhat protected from much of what the other ballet rats were exposed to. She had her mother with her, for one thing – and it would seem, now, the patronage of the Opera Ghost. _Was that Madame's plan for Meg – marriage to Erik? Getting me out of the way, having Raoul rescue me, would make sense._ _More reason for Erik to not trust her if he suspected._

Now they were a family of sorts for him, as she came to understand it. The Trio loved to talk about how wonderful the Master was – how the men met on the ship to America and became acquainted with Miss Fleck at their first fair. When they learned she was his protégé, they were more than willing to share some of the background of Phantasma – how hard he worked to make certain everyone was treated well and how the park always had the best and newest attractions. Their love for him was real and honest – so different from the atmosphere at the Garnier. Of course, Erik brought most of his difficulties upon himself. Nevertheless, she was impressed with the transformation the Trio spoke about. If there were dark moods, they were not disclosed by these loving friends.

Adele took care of business, Erik had used his physical appearance and music to make money and Meg – Meg danced and did _public relations._ Miss Fleck covered her mouth and giggled as she relayed that piece of information.

When Christine raised her eyebrows, Miss Fleck backtracked, saying "She just flirts and tosses kisses from the stage – that sort of thing. The Master would never permit anything more than that. He can be very strict."

"Yes, I am very aware of how strict he can be." Christine laughed, but did not miss the side eyes the midget exchanged with Dr. Gangle and the Mighty Squelch.

So Meg danced…but not ballet. What she observed was less than the young ballerina had been capable of. Still there was an elegance and difficulty to the routine she saw. Decidedly not the type of dancing she recalled from her experiences with Pappa of the dancers at the fairs they worked when she was a child. Meg's voice also carried a weight not found in the fairground singers – Erik's influence, no doubt. Singing was not Meg's strong point –_ "I would be concerned entering into a singing competition with frogs and donkeys." _Yet, Erik wrote music to suit her and the delivery was saucy and funny – as was the intention.

It did not escape her notice that the men Adele appeared to be speaking with about business treated Meg much like the patrons at the Garnier treated the rats, despite Miss Fleck's argument to the contrary. The look and the posture did not change – hunters eyeing prey. Once again she was grateful that Mamma Valerius gave her a place to stay – she was not at the mercy of the opera house. It did not hurt that Vicomte Raoul de Chagney became her patron.

So here she was ten years later discovering her Angel of Music was also an angel to Meg of another sort. That would explain the chill she felt from Adele upon her arrival. Her relationship with Erik disrupted not only the whole of the Opera Populaire, but Adele and Meg's private situation with Erik. She could not blame them for thinking this would be a repetition of that time.

Meg seemed happy to see her – at first. The look on her face now as she talks with her and Gustave is less friendly. _Does she believe me to be a threat? Is she involved with Erik romantically? _Judging from their welcome, if you could call it such, when they arrived, Erik's secretive nature was still part of him – they had no idea she was coming.

Raoul always went on and on about Erik's face – how horrible it was. She had to agree, she would never forget that first glimpse of his face…and his rage. _Now you can never be free._ Recognizing the man – remembering the teacher – seeing his pain made his face not so important, if important at all. For her it was the shock of the reveal – as it had been with Gustave. _Hate can turn to love. _He was right. There was more to him than a face – as she would come to know well. If Meg fell in love with him, perhaps it was because she, too, saw that other being – the beauty underneath.

"The sun is barely up and I can feel a chill in the air – yet you have braved the ocean."

"My favorite time of the day – the quiet – no crowds and noise."

"Could you teach me how to swim, Mademoiselle Meg?" Gustave asks, his enthusiasm reignited. "I really want to learn. Maman, could she?"

Christine looks at Meg, an eyebrow quirked. "I should like to learn as well – I would like for us to spend some time together once the performance is over. I have missed your company, Meg."

"I supposed we could squeeze in a few lessons before the weather turns too cold." Meg ruffles Gustave's hair – revealing the scarring. "Oh, here let me smooth your hair, I did not mean to…" But her hand refuses to touch him again. The blue eyes are wide, her mouth turned down – she swallows hard.

"It is a birthmark," he says, lifting his chin as he did with Erik – showing her the raised red mark under his chin. "Just like Mr. Y – only mine is smaller."

"He showed you his face?"

"Yes – I was playing the piano and singing – then he showed me some automatons – then he took off his mask."

Meg can only stare at the matter of fact recitation.

"I was afraid at first because he surprised me." He looks up at his mother, but Christine is studying Meg, eyes narrowed. "He was upset, I could tell – he told us to go, but then I showed him my birthmarks and it was better."

"His face did not disgust you?" The question directed more to Christine than the boy.

Mulling the question, his reply is thoughtful. "No. He is different, like the soldiers. I mean he is not handsome like my father. I think it hurts him though – I was sorry I made him feel bad. He is so much fun, it does not matter what he looks like. People do not like me sometimes."

"Gustave, you did not tell me…"

"At school – the other boys make fun because I like music and make up stories."

"Then something must be done – I will not have you bullied."

"You would make it worse."

"He is right, Christine – being different does not encourage friendship. You should know."

Christine nods. "Nevertheless, we will look into another school – one that appreciates a wonderful boy such as you."

Gustave rolls his eyes, returning his attention to Meg. "So, could you teach me to swim?"

Mother was right – the child is theirs. Christine is looking at me – wondering if I made the connection. Her face full of concern – still the worrier – never wishing to hurt anyone's feelings. Perfect Christine. No, she is aware I made the connection. She wonders whether I care. Whether he and I…

You have no idea how I wish he and I…could have been something – made something. I helped with this – with Phantasma – oh, my, yes, how I helped. Doing my part – Mother handling the business deals, Erik the design and the artistry – me, I greased the palms in whatever way I could. Problem is, I hate this place – a world of freaks, but among them, I am the real freak – the outsider. Sleeping with other men was as close to normal as I could come to an escape from the ugliness all around me. Much as I want to, I cannot not look at his face – I see him in my dreams from that one time and it sickens me. A child has more compassion and love for a stranger, than I for the man I claim to love.

Sighing deeply and forcing a smile, she says, "Yes, I think I could give you and your mother a lesson or two. We were such good friends – did you know that?"

"Oh, yes, Maman told me what a wonderful dancer you were and how you would help her when she did not remember the steps."

"She told you that?"

"Oh, yes – you were her best friend and she missed you so much, is that not right, Maman?"

"That is right, Gustave," Christine's green eyes smile and apologize at the same time. "Meg was so kind to me when I had no one."

"And then things changed." _You had two and I had none. That has not changed. _"Well, I must take this wet suit off and prepare for the show – five shows, actually. Will you be coming?"

"I should like to see you perform – the song…_Bathing Beauty_, is it – sounds like fun."

"Oh, it is a thousand laughs, definitely not the ballet – and not for the young man here." Her laugh is harsh and humorless.

"Then I will come by myself – Eloise, our maid, can tend to Gustave."

"What about Raoul?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I am certain he would enjoy the show as well."

"Maman? Maybe I can visit with Mr. Y."

"I do not think so, Gustave – he will be busy watching the different performances."

"No. He will not. He never watches," Meg says. "Too busy creating."

"I see."

"Do you?"

Christine felt her own heart breaking at the bitterness in Meg's voice. _How I wish he could have loved you, my friend. You have answered a question I had, however, and lightened my heart. _"Perhaps not," she replies. "But I shall watch you light up the stage – I know that has not changed."

"I will leave you a pass," Meg says, "now, I really must go."

The women exchange kisses on the cheek and with a ghosting pat to Gustave's head, Meg runs off to her dressing room.

"Is Mlle. Meg angry at Mr. Y – she sounded like she was?"

"Maybe disappointed – like you get with your father when he is busy with work and cannot play with you."

"I get angry."

"Gustave, no."

"Yes. I get very angry."

"Well, we must address that."

"Why do you not get angry – he is mean to you, too?"

"Remember what we talked about the other night?"

"Look with my heart?"

"Yes."

"My heart says he does not care."

"Oh, Gustave." She pulls him to her, cradling his head in her hand.

"I like Mr. Y – he is not mean to you."

"Oh, Gustave," she repeats, shaking her head, her sad laugh tinged with tears. "Come, I need to rehearse."

"What were you talking about?"

"The boy wants to learn how to swim – so does Christine."

"And?"

"And I said I would be happy to give them a few lessons."

"Did you find the Vicomte?"

"He was a Jack's as you advised."

"So he never returned to the hotel, I was not certain."

"Looking at her…and the boy, one would never know."

"Will he take them and leave?"

"After she sings. The money…"

"That will not do. If she sings – she will stay – he will not let her go again. I was surprised when he allowed her to leave back then."

"What did you believe would happen when you told Raoul about the lake house?"

"That they would all die."

"Mother!"

"Erik had gone mad – he was crazed…obsessed with her…obsessed with _that boy_ as well_._ He wanted the confrontation. Not the way it happened, of course. He never expected what occurred on stage that night – being exposed that way. He was to be captured back stage…"

"Raoul's plan? Erik knew?"

"Yes. I told him. I suppose he felt he had nothing to lose by singing with her."

"He wanted Erik dead?"

"Of course, he knew the hold Erik had on her. For his part, Erik no longer cared about living, but he would not die without taking the Vicomte with him."

"Christine?"

A sharp look was her only response.

"But he let them go."

"Yes. He never told me why," she says, her dark eyes focused on a past only she can see in the darkness of the shadows of the music hall. "Now we have some idea. So long ago, but the game plays on."

"Do you really believe Erik would turn everything over to the child?"

"He said as much."

"To Christine?"

"No – to the world – his world up there in the Eyrie. He sang it – the closest thing to a prayer I ever heard from his lips. He was happy. I was taken aback. It was an emotion I have never seen him display."

"Happy?"

Adele waves her hands in the air. "Yes. Happy. I can see no other word for it – Erik is happy – and that makes him all the more unpredictable."

Meg grabs her mother, pressing her fingers deeply into her arm. "He was never going to be interested in me, was he?"

"I thought he might. He is a man after all," Adele replies, pulling her arm away, straightening the black faille sleeve. "But, no, I suppose I did not really believe it."

"No. Do not say that to me. Oh, God – oh. God." Meg paces the floor, pounding her fists against her head.

"Just breathe, okay," Adele commands.

"Okay? Okay? I have been blaming myself – thinking I was not doing enough – that I was not good enough. I gave up everything…You lied to me."

Taking her daughter by the shoulders, Adele says, "This is no time for hysterics. Whatever I did, or you did does not matter now. We cannot lose this place to them – _this_ is your everything now."

"He would still need you…us. He would not cast us out – even if..."

"Perhaps," she smirks, eyes alight.

"Mother – what are you saying?"

"The boy must be considered. No more, no less." The focus of the dark eyes shifts to Meg. "He wants to learn to swim. We can start there."

* * *

A/N – The scene between Madame Giry and Meg was thanks to a prompt by filthybonnet on tumblr - "just breathe, okay?" Thanks for the idea.


	12. Heaven by the Sea

Heaven by the Sea

"Fancy seeing you down here among the peons."

"Excuse me?"

"When have you ever deigned to walk among the scene shifters and other workmen before a show?" Adele says, facing Erik full on, poking a finger at his chest.

"You appear to be looking for a fight, Madame." Erik pushes her hand away and walks to the scrim of purple and pink clouds* that will provide the backdrop for Christine's aria. "I am not in the mood for your temper."

"Everything is in order – as always – not that you have cared about it until now. Now that she has reentered our lives – with her son."

"Her name is Christine, Adele. The boy is called Gustave – for her father. You were once her friend and mentor," Erik says. "I thought you were my friend as well. What has you so out of sorts? This evening is as much your success as mine."

"Surely you jest."

"Not at all. Were it not for you, none of this would have been possible." His amber eyes, draw her black ones to him – she is unable to look away. "I remember, if you do not."

"_I found his mask and this veil on the floor, Maman."_

"_No sign of him?"_

_Meg shakes her head._

"_The mob?"_

"_They came through the room and knocked down all the candelabra and destroyed the organ. The rest of the house was pilfered, but without blood, their rage was lost and they moved on."_

"You hid in the tunnels."

"I hid in the tunnels, in the wardrobe room, in the dressing rooms and on the roof."

"And I found you there. I almost came to believe you were that body in the Seine."

"A vagrant I found on the street."

Adele's eyes query the response.

"A dead vagrant I found on the street," he repeats. "I was…am weary of violence."

"Christine and the Vicomte…"

A sad smile is his reply. "You told me you were being hounded by the police."

"So we came to America – the New World."

"Is there no other way we can make a living here? You could play your violin and sing and still wear your mask."

"Only in Russia would they accept the mask and appreciate the music for itself. The horror of this face with the music will bring in the money we need to build something wonderful. "

"I hate the idea of you putting yourself on display – the way I first saw you – in a cage."

"M. Saint-Rien, excuse me, sir."**

Erik looked up from his drawings. They were just completing the final mechanical designs before mounting the crystal chandelier in the main auditorium when a formidable lady dressed in black faille, a small, veiled, black bonnet on her head, approached him. She was incredibly thin – not terribly tall, but carried herself with such dignity and pride, that one had to take heed. Her face made up of sharp edges was beautiful in its gauntness, reminding him of himself.

"Madame?"

"My name is Adele Giry. I am… was a dancer here at the old Opera House before the siege and now teach the ballet."

"I am an architect, Madame, I have nothing to do with the hiring here."

"No, no…I'm sorry. Thankfully, I have secured employment, thank you." She was struggling.

"Please. Sit," indicating the chair opposite at his worktable. For the life of him, he could not understand why he was feeling sympathetic, even cordial to this strange woman who was interrupting his work, but he was intrigued.

"Thank you." She sat down in the proffered chair, putting her purse on her lap, keeping her cane at her side. "I do not wish to insult or embarrass you, monsieur."

"Why would that happen?"

"I am a stranger approaching you to relate a story and to ask a question that may have nothing to do with you. This might be considered impertinent." She gave him a grim smile. "You wear a mask. They say – the people who work here – you are also a musical genius – some have heard you sing and play when most have gone home."

"Yes, that is so. I do not know about genius, but music is very important to me. This opera house is very important to me."

Mme. Giry cleared her throat and began to tell her tale. "It was perhaps 35 years ago, more or less, I was a young dancer. A friend and I were at the Bois de Bologne – there was a traveling fair and we thought it might be fun to walk around."

Her dark eyes reflected a deep sympathy, something he seldom experienced – in truth, only a few times during his life. "We heard singing. It was the most heavenly sound. Never in our years with the opera had we ever heard such a sound."

Erik struggled to maintain his composure – oblivious to the crushed plans he was holding.

Adele turned from his gaze and looked into the past.

"We ran to find the person who was creating this wonderful music. Our hearts stopped when we saw a boy, a young boy with a face that was deeply deformed, sitting on the floor of a metal cage glaring at the crowd and singing with the voice of an angel. How did one reconcile this conflict?

"I wanted desperately to do something to help him, but my friend insisted we leave."

"There is nothing we can do, Adele. He is a freak. This is what becomes of freaks."

"How can you say that? He is a child. A child with a gift locked in a cage, for God's sake, Yvette."

"What do you think you can do? He makes money for them. They house him. Do you want to buy him?"

I slapped her. Hard. Stunned, she cursed me and ran away.

"I can be kind. For a moment, I can be kind."

"I had a small meringue and a bit of chocolate left over from our luncheon. I brought the treats to the boy. He was chained, so could not take it from my hands. He allowed me to feed him the bits of food. Then I, too, ran. I could not bear to look into his eyes – amber eyes. So I ran like a coward."

She closed her own eyes for a moment, to clear the memory, then turned again to face Erik. "I have prayed for him every night since that day."

Erik raised an eyebrow, touched the edge of his mask, and looked directly at her.

"Yes, I thought so." She gave him the briefest of smiles, a smile so sad _he_ felt sorry for _her_.

"You left before I could thank you. Had you returned a few months later, you would have seen my circumstances had improved somewhat. I was allowed to sing from a coffin fully dressed in a cutaway – with my mask on. I only had to remove it at the end of the performance to suitably scare the 'customers' into sacrificing more of their coins to the gypsies."

"Did you escape?"

"After a time."

Adele nodded, she would not press him further. The amber eyes told her she would learn nothing more. "I am so very happy to see that your 'circumstances' have improved beyond those to which you refer, monsieur."

"Indeed they have, Madame, but not without a price, n'est-ce pas?"

"As with most things in life."

"May I buy you a coffee or tea? And a meringue?"

"That would be lovely. I would very much like a coffee. And would especially enjoy a meringue."

"It is necessary – and I will not be in a cage."

"Meg can dance."

"No – the crowd is rude and she is too young."

"If we are to live, we must all work – she will learn how to deal with the crowd."

"So tell me, why are you so angry – and do not lie to me."

"You are happy and that frightens me."

A bark of a laugh surprises them both. "It frightens me, too."

"So…what are you doing backstage?"

"Tonight is our finale and I wanted to be certain everything was in order."

"For Christine?"

"For everyone."

"Even the Ooh La-La Girl?"

"Particularly for Meg. We would not have a theater or much of an audience without her. Why would you think otherwise?"

"So you will be watching the show tonight?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"All of it," he says, taking in the set of her jaw, the flat line of her lips. "I see…I have been remiss – not just to the show, but to Meg."

"That is an understatement."

"You know who I am, Adele – better than anyone, except perhaps a man I once knew…and Christine," Erik says, his tone flat. "Only now I live above ground and instead of an opera house to haunt – I inhabit an amusement park. Instead of creating music I love, I write songs to please a different sort of audience. I survived the mob once again."

"You are different today."

"As I said – you know who I am and what brings me joy and sorrow. Please allow me this happiness as you call it. I have done nothing to hurt you…or Meg – only worked for all of us to be safe and materially comfortable – now and in the future. More, I cannot do."

"You will be hurt again."

The amber eyes burn into her. With a short bow, he says, "I must see to some other business, if you will excuse me."

"Master – what are you doing here?" Miss Fleck asks, as Erik checks the rigging for her trapeze.

"Have I really been so absent?"

"Truth?" Dr. Gangle asks.

"Of course I want the truth."

The Mighty Squelch joins in. The Trio – as is their wont – converse as one. "You have successfully become a ghost here – just as you say you were in Paris."

"A Phantom."

"A specter."

"A masked man who hides in the shadows…"

"With the voice of an angel…"

"And the face of a devil."

"The face of a devil – even now?"

"Some remember you from the early days and tell tales," Squelch tells him.

"Hmmm, is that so? I suppose that is to be expected. I must make myself more present it would seem," Erik says, waving them off, humming a melody to himself.

Shocked into silence by Erik's comment, the Trio exchange looks as Erik settles himself on the trapeze and begins to swing.

"Mr. Y. Mr. Y," Gustave calls out, running past them towards Erik.

Hopping off mid-swing, he lands soundly in front of the boy, hands on hips. "Are you going to ask me what I am doing here as well?"

"No, monsieur. Why would I do that – all this is yours." Flinging his arms wide as he twirls, embracing the energy of the park.

"Thank goodness, I was beginning to believe I was not at Phantasma," Erik sighs, bending over to achieve eye level with the boy. "Has Miss Fleck taught you any acrobatics?"

"No."

"Gangle," he calls out, "can he juggle?"

The master of ceremonies shakes his head no.

"Squelch – lift weights?"

The strongman grunts.

_Then what are you about, young man, if not learning these skills?_

Gustave starts at a voice seeming to come from behind him. He spins around searching the darkened stage.

The Trio hide broad grins behind their hands

_This is a house of illusion._

A turn to the right. No one is there.

_What would you wish to be taught?_

Laughing, Gustave faces Erik again. "I would like to learn how to do that!"

"What are your plans now?"

"Miss Fleck said she would take me for une saucisse sandwich et barbe a papa."

"Indeed," he tilts his head at Miss Fleck.

"La Daae is rehearsing and asked if I…we…"

"That sounds quite wonderful – the hot dogs and cotton candy here at Phantasma are the best in the world – is that not so, Dr. Gangle?"

"Everything here is the best," the Trio reply in unison.

"Can you come with us?"

"I think not," Erik replies. "Considering the fuss I have caused by appearing among those who know me well, the commotion I might cause on the midway might be more than anyone could bear. Of course, we could sell tickets."

The Trio freeze, unsure as how to respond. Gustave cocks his head, his face a riot of confusion. "Why would Mr. Y sell tickets for people to see him – he is the Master?"

"A joke – a bad one it would seem. Go along." Erik tousles the boy's hair, allowing his thumb to graze the scarred tissue behind his ear. "We can have a lesson tomorrow, if your mother is agreeable. I am not certain how she would feel about you learning ventriloquism. Be certain you are all back here in time for the performance."

"Are you going to see Maman?"

"No, not now. If memory serves, she is fretting about her costume and how to dress her hair."

Gustave's hazel eyes light up. "She is! She is!"

"Should I put it up or let it hang loose down my back or would that offend the managers?"

"It is the managers who are offensive," he scoffed. "When the audience hears you sing, no one will care what you are wearing – a sack will look to them as though crafted from the finest silk – and the managers will be happily envisioning the house for weeks to come."

"I am frightened."

"You are perfection."

"Truly?"

"Truly – I am your teacher. I believe I know when something is perfect."

"Do you think I should go over the song one more time?

"No. You must dress now and I must take my leave."

"Oh, I am so nervous – what should I do with my hands?"

"Allow the stole to drape over your purlicues…

"Purlicues?"

"The space between your thumb and forefinger. Do not hold onto the scarf. Allow the flow of fabric to frame your movements giving you more presence. Your curls, as they are, are most enchanting, particularly with the tiara you shall be wearing. All in all – a most beautiful and glorious queen. Hannibal is a fool to leave her."

"Angel?"

"Yes, Christine."

"Thank you."

"Thank _you_. Now prepare, I shall visit after the performance."

"She is certain to look lovely whatever she decides." Erik casts a wistful glance toward the dressing rooms. "Now go on, do not eat so much as to become ill or your mother will have us all in shackles."

"Mr. Y?"

"Yes, Gustave."

"I am so happy here."

"I am, too."

*The London version is my model for this story. Although I love peacocks – my boss used to have one roaming his neighborhood – and I love their colors, to me the whole Love Never Dies scene was garish and overdone so that Christine blended in with the scenery. There is also the element of bad luck attached to peacocks and theaters – that Erik had to know about. That said, in researching this, I discovered that in the In the East, particularly India, China and Japan, bringing peacock feathers into the home is a way to increase luck. The feathers provide extra eyes around the house, increasing security and protecting the occupants from death and danger [source: Webster]. As we saw in the original LND, this was not the case – nor was it the case for the show overall. Thus, I am going with the pink that Christine favors throughout the London version.

**I am plagiarizing myself – a longer version of the meeting of Erik and Adele (Madame Giry) is included in A Gift from the Past, Chapter 3.


	13. Does She Love Me?

"And then we had hot dogs…"

"Dogs? Dear Lord, Gustave…"

"Not real dogs," he giggles, rolling his eyes, arms outstretched as if flying around the room. "Saucisse sandwiches – they are called hot dogs here. I had three with mustard and ketchup and onions and piccalilli. Then I had cotton candy and root beer and an ice cream cone."

"My goodness," Christine laughs. "You best stop racing about or you will find all that wonderful food on the floor. You do not feel sick, do you?"

"I already threw up. Miss Fleck held my head over a bucket, so I did not make a mess. She taught me how to do the cartwheel. Watch," he says, performing a respectable cartwheel, his legs only slightly bent with a crouched landing. "I want to learn how to walk on stilts next and Mr. Y said he would teach me how to throw my voice."

"It sounds as though you had quite a full and filling day. And did you thank Miss Fleck?"

"I did. Everyone thought it was funny."

"Even Mr. Y?"

"He did not go with us – just the Trio – Dr. Gangle said not to eat the third hot dog, but it was so good."

"Yes, I understand how that can be – when something is so wonderful, you do not want it to end," she says, motioning for him to come close to her, smoothing his hair from a forehead beaded with sweat.

The kiss lasted but a moment. Courage – she had prayed for courage to kiss the man who gave her music – his music. Music as she always dreamed it existed – music her father reached for, but, even he was unable to truly give it to her. Music that bound them as nothing else might. Compassion was the least she could give. Still, touching him – kissing him... What might the physical experience be like – bearable at best, abhorrent at worst? Would his rage be calmed? Could she save Raoul's life? Could she give herself to him as his wife? Was compassion enough for that commitment?

Holding him close after pressing her mouth to his – finding his lips soft, responsive. How perfectly they connected. Why had she believed they might be anything else? Ah, the distortion. Everything about Erik was a distortion. Nothing was as it seemed – he was a mass of anomalies – an angel, a freak, a man – most importantly that – a man.

Kissing him again was as natural as breathing for her. They were one being. She felt his resistance – not believing after all the hell he had created could invite her to any such closeness with him. Always fearful of touch – this most intimate of gestures shocked him as much as it shocked her – and, poor, unfortunate Raoul – who could only watch. What had he been thinking? Why did she not care?

In those moments – looking back, were so brief – all she wanted was Erik then and forever. Nothing had changed in all these years. Seeing him again – time dissolved.

"It was the best day ever." Wrapping his arms around her neck, Gustave gives her a hug. "You look so pretty."

"Thank you, monsieur. Might you get my diamond earrings from the jewelry box? Maybe tomorrow, you can show me the sights – I should like to try one of those hot dogs. Do you suppose they have sauerkraut? I always liked sauerkraut with sausages."

"Mlle. Meg also said she could teach us to swim," he says, lifting a pair of earrings from the box, he hands them to her, watching her in the mirror as she puts them on.

"What do you think?"

"Perfect – they sparkle just like your dress."

"Christine. Gustave."

"Raoul, I wondered if you would be here."

"You had already left when I returned to the hotel."

"Maman looks beautiful, does she not?"

"Most beautiful, but then she has always been the loveliest girl I have ever known."

"That encompasses quite a long period of time."

"It does indeed," he says. "Gustave, might I ask you to allow me a few moments alone with your mother?"

"Can I explore backstage?"

"Yes, but do not wander off, stay close to the Trio – and no more hot dogs."

"Was it necessary to stay out all night?"

"You have every right to be angry."

"Oh, Raoul, I am beyond being angry. I am weary."

"I know I have been a challenge – a poor husband – not the man you thought, from the time we were married."

"This is not the time for that conversation."

"It is, Christine. Trust me it is – now that he has reentered the picture."

"What is it you want?"

"Am I that transparent?"

"After all these years, you have not changed – Erik is not the issue here."

"But I have changed – being here. Seeing that monster again. His desire to control you."

"And you do not? It was your idea to do this."

"When I believed it was Oscar Hammerstein – he could revive your career. I thought you would want that."

"You did it for the money. That has not changed – no matter where the money comes from."

"Please leave with me now – do not sing for him – it will never end."

"What about the money?"

Raoul turns away. "That does not matter."

"When has it not mattered? What are you hiding?"

"Please, if you love me – you will leave with me now. Not only for your sake and mine, but for the boy," he says, turning back to face her. "I have booked our passage. I promise, I will be the man you believed me to be all those years ago. Allow me that chance."

The man I believed him to be – who was that? The boy who ran recklessly into the sea to fetch my red scarf? The man who acted first and thought later – an apology always ready on the tip of his tongue – particularly when he attempted to tighten his hold on her performing again?

"What is that?"

"A letter for you – from the Palais Garnier."

"Indeed?" She held her hand out for the missive.

"What could they possibly want?" Tapping the envelope on his chin before holding it up to the light, a mock attempt to see through the heavy stationary.

"If you hand me _my_ letter, I will open it to find out." Aqua eyes flared. "Give it to me."

The letter read, Christine placed it in her pocket, leaving Raoul to follow her, a repentant pup into the sitting room.

"Well?"

"There is going to be a gala and they wish me to perform."

"You know that is impossible."

"Why?"

"You are a Vicomtesse. It is not done."

"Do you recall a night atop the roof of the Palais – you said you would guard and guide me?"

"You were so beautiful – we pledged our love to one another," he said. "How could I forget? Our kiss – our plans."

"I told _you_ I wanted freedom."

"You have everything you want. I have lived up to my promise."

"I want to sing at the gala."

"No."

"They will pay." Had she known what his answer would be – would she have given him this test?

"How much?"

Whatever respect she still had for him evaporated with the exchange, turning to pity and the sour admission of the belief she harbored for years – she was his tool. For all the words of love – there was no lack of belief that Raoul loved her. What he conceived love to be was the issue. Her beauty, her voice – a childhood recollection of his heroism, using her to rebel against his family. But, of course, she knew those things – the reason she ran to Erik that long ago night was because of how Raoul loved.

She might well have been a mannequin – a pretty face to dress up and show off to his friends. A mindless doll who, disapprove or not, could sing – not just sing, but could command an opera house with 2,000 seat, bringing an audience to its feet night after night.

Her requests to be allowed to sing – even in church – were initially met with negative result. Until that letter. The most recent loss must have been devastating. This concession struck him to the core. The perspiration on his brow when he asked the price revealed his fear.

"One thousand gold francs for three arias."

"One thousand five hundred – five hundred for each song."

It would be thus going forward – the offer, the counter-offer based on what Raoul felt was appropriate and her moments of freedom at the Palais, at other society galas and benefits. Where others donated their talents – the Vicomtesse always garnered a fee.

The amount for this engagement should have alerted her that something was not quite right. While quite popular, and always assured of a sizeable audience – she wondered at her acclaim reaching across the Atlantic Ocean. Raoul was particularly desperate coming home after a weekend in Monte Carlo where she performed at the Salle Garnier. The journey to the sea was wonderful. However, his drinking had increased and sleep eluded him. The entire time was spent at the tables. His losses at the Casino were such the Parisian papers reported the humiliation.

_La Vicomtesse de Chagny, nee Christine Daae, thrills with her voice, while noble husband loses fortune at Baccarat._

When the letter from Hammerstein arrived, it was a godsend – or so he believed. Even in her short time here, she was aware of how the immigrants that populated the city and visitors to Phantasma, were hungry for news from the Continent. When they docked, the reporters alluded to the gambling loss – it made sense that Erik knew of Raoul's…her situation and took the opportunity to seek her out.

The contract assured a payment to clear his debt. Now he wants to go home. What had Erik said to him?

Then it struck her – of course – how simple. It would be amusing were it not so predictable and so sad.

Christine walks to him, taking his face in her hands. "I must take some responsibility for what went wrong with our marriage."

"You will return to France with me?"

"Is that the wager? We are to be paid if I do not sing?"

"He is evil, Christine. Nothing good can come from you performing here – now or in the future. This is not the place to raise a child."

Kissing him deeply before releasing him, wanting to feel close to him again. Wanting to recall those days before he became a disappointment to both of them. Their years together demand she not act in haste. "I need to think. Whether I sing or not is of no matter to our lives going forward."

The sadness disappears from his eyes – the dull blue brightens – and for a moment he is the young boy at the sea shore, holding a red scarf in his hands. Leaning into her, he returns her kiss. "My every hope lies with you – I will be the man you wished me to be – I assure you."

"He will not change."

"Still eavesdropping, I see," she says, a mocking smile curving her lips.

"Only just now – I needed to hear what he might say about me – about your performance…about the boy."

"And what did you learn?"

"You already know – you are more than he can allow you to be and still feel like a man. It is not in him – he could not even convince himself just now. He is counting on your good heart and your pity – is this how it has been?"

"Not always," she says, "however, coming here has certainly brought a number of things into perspective. I knew of his addiction, but was never certain how deeply infected he was."

"How so?"

"What was the prize – what was the bet?

A slight tightening of his shoulders and the shift of his eyes reply before he says, "Bet?"

Her laugh rings like a bell – light and airy. Her amusement is real. "I thought so. I _am_ the spoil. Oh, Erik, you foolish man. You knew I was going to sing – that was the bet, correct? I sing and I stay with you?"

Looking down and away, he shrugs. "Something like that."

"And you were so certain I would accede to the two of you bartering with my life…and the life of my son…in such a way? Did you not learn that lesson the last time?"

"I can see now this was not clear thinking."

"I should hope so." Her tone maintains a lightness. "The bet is off. Fools, both of you, to believe I would consent to being chattel passed from one hand to another."

Erik risks looking at her. "Would an apology help? I never understood how to speak to you about these things."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Kiss me," she repeats. "Raoul kissed me and I want to have my own contest. It has been a long time and I have forgotten what your mouth feels like against mine."

"Christine…"

"Then I shall kiss you." Walking over to him, she takes his face in her hands as she had done those years ago first out of compassion, then from love.

This time, however, Erik responds, holding her tightly.

The two of them sate a thirst years and distance deprived them of, leaving both breathless when they separate.

Emboldened, he begins to cajole her with his voice in all its variations from soaring tenor, to sensuous baritone, even when speaking – he intoxicated her. Encouraging her with words about the orchestra and the crowd, he becomes the Angel of Music again. The thrill of the music pulsing through her. Drunk with his kiss, now with his music. Her music. Their music. She never felt more alive than when singing with him or allowing him to sing through her. These past years she was dead.

"_Let me hear you sing, once more."_ With that he was gone.

When had he given her the necklace – the garnets – so lovely with the gown? Once he began speaking, in that voice, she lost all sense of the words, only the thrill of him deep in her core. It was so that first night in the opera house when she walked through the mirror to explore the tunnels with her Angel – it was so now.

Could she just leave her marriage? Allow Erik to fill her in such a way she lost all reason in the need to be with him. To his credit, he had let her be – until just now. What of Gustave? Gustave loves him…and Erik loves Gustave.

The boy must be considered.

However, he was conceived – legally he was Raoul's son. If Raoul suspected any other paternity, the time had long past for him to challenge it. The question of where she had gone the night before their wedding never arose. Whether because he trusted her or whether he did not – she never knew. They proceeded to the mairie as planned and were wed in the religious ceremony two days later.

When she announced she was pregnant, he celebrated with her – there was no reason for him to doubt Gustave was his flesh. He was not a doting father, never wished to hold the baby, so never saw the scarring. Except for that and the color of his eyes, Gustave was the image of his mother. Still, when she never conceived again – Raoul was not particularly disappointed. Though never discussed, she wondered at the lack of fertility, especially since she became pregnant that one time with Erik. The answer had to lie with him.

After a few years, they accepted the fact that there would only be one child. It was about that time Raoul sought to salve his physical needs elsewhere. There were never any whispers of babies born on the wrong side of the blanket. Even at that late date, he could have thrown her into the street – but he accepted Gustave as his, if only for the sake of his manhood. The family was another story, but, again, Raoul stood by her. It was a fragile peace, but each found their own place and there was an odd comfort with that understanding.

Is this the life I want for myself and my son? An amusement park – an over-sized fair. The places she visited with Pappa? Those were more her home than the Parisian salons. Still, Paris was safe, comfortable if bland – a title would serve Gustave well – lands and property Raoul could not gamble away. Was passion a foundation for a life?

Kissing both men was thrilling – there was some joy to be had to be so desired. Unfortunately, it did not make her decision any easier – stay in America or return to France. Where would she and her son be happier? Having the option was so freeing – this was the first time in years she felt any control over her life.

"I just want to sing. I want to feel the music coursing through my veins. I want to be with the music for a moment – it has been so long. Then I will decide. At least there will be no violence this time."


	14. Leave the Past Behind

Leave the Past Behind

"There you are, I was hoping to find you roaming about back here."

"Hunh?" Gustave looks away from the stage where Miss Fleck is performing her acrobatics surrounded by clowns tossing juggling pins back and forth to one another, while others are jumping through hoops or balancing balls on their noses. Searching for the voice coming from the darkness behind him, he calls out, "Who is it?"

"Meg Giry."

"I cannot see you. It is so dark back here."

"Are you frightened?"

"No. I just cannot see you – the lights on the stage are really bright."

Meg steps from the shadows, all evidence of her stage presence gone – make-up washed clean from her pale face, the provocative costume replaced with a plain dress – her blonde hair pulled into a loose chignon. "Is this better?"

"You do not look like Mlle. Giry." Gustave slips from the stool he has been sitting on and moves away from her, his hazel eyes shifting back and forth for an escape route.

"Oh, I see." Striking a pose, she does a tap shuffle and sings softly:

_Bathing beauty on the beach_

_Bathing beauty, say hello_

_What a cutie, what a peach_

_Bathing beauty, watch her go_

Gustave, relieved, laughs and sings in response:

_Bathing beauty on the beach_

_Stripes. He strikes a pose, hands on hips._

_Ooh, what a cutie, what a peach_

_Spots. Shifts his pose, putting a hand behind his head._

"I see you were watching the show – does your mother know?"

Despite the dim light, his cheeks have noticeably reddened – with an imploring look, he pleas, "You will not tell her – or Mr. Y?"

"I will not tell." Meg's eyes search the wings, all the stagehands are on the other side, preparing to change the set for Christine's aria. "Should you not be with Miss Fleck?

"She will be here soon," he nods toward the stage, "…the routine is almost over. She told me to wait here for her. This is the best place back stage to watch Maman sing."

"I know a better place."

"You do?"

"Of course. I am the star of Phantasma, I would be the best person to show you where to watch your Maman." Casually draping her hand over his shoulder, she encourages him to walk with her toward the stage door.

The boy pulls back. "I do not know…Miss Fleck will be angry if I am not here when she comes for me."

"I will explain to her."

"Maman said to only go with Miss Fleck and not leave the backstage area."

"I suppose you must obey your Maman – but would you not like to see more of the stage, instead of sitting back here in the dark?

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Did your Maman not tell you we were the best of friends in Paris…that I would help her dance when she forgot the steps?"

Gustave nods, still unsure.

"And, did she not agree to let me teach you how to swim?"

A grin breaks across his face, his shoulders relax as he nods happily. "Tomorrow, right?"

"Yes. Tomorrow," Meg says, returning his smile. "For now though, we shall go around to the front of the theater and I will show you the very best seat in the house. We might even see Mr. Y."

"Oh, yes. He would only want to watch Maman from the very best place."

"There, you see, everything will work out perfectly."

Erik was correct – the theater is alive with energy – something about the setting. Finding her mark on the stage, she practices the deep breathing techniques he taught her so many years ago. The orchestra is not entirely in place – she can hear them rustle in their seats – sorting their music. Certain her heartbeat is audible, she presses her hands against her diaphragm to calm herself. Perhaps this was a bad idea – as Raoul suggested. She could see him in the wings to her left. Erik to the right. How was she supposed to sing when sensing the pressure from each of them? Was this competition to never end?

What if she just walked off now – left both of them behind? Took Gustave and found some sort of work – maybe find Oscar Hammerstein on her own. Silly thoughts to have at a time before singing an aria written for her by a man who only wanted her to sing – her dream, her father's dream. Despite what they shared that one night – Erik's concern had always been fulfilling Pappa's promise as her Angel of Music. That they would be lovers surprised both of them.

The conductor taps his baton on the music stand. The introductory notes of the aria are played. All of this was rehearsed earlier in the day, but Christine hesitates at her cue. The orchestra replays the opening notes. Christine senses, rather than sees the balding man's eyes on her during the second vamp – one eyebrow raised, a slight nod of encouragement. The audience begins imperceptibly to stir.

_Who knows when love begin?_

_Who knows what makes it start?_

Fear grasps at her gut – a recollection of that day at the Opera Populaire when she sang the first notes of _Think of _Me. As it would turn out, she caught a glance of Madame Giry out of the corner of her eye – standing back and away from Erik. Her hands propped on her cane, lips flat, eyes cold.

_One day it's simply there_

_Alive inside your heart_

Taking hold of her nerves, pushing her doubts behind, she begins to give herself over to the music. You give the song life. Give life to yourself.

_Try to deny it_

_And try to protest_

_But love won't let you go_

_Once you've been possessed_

Fear vanishes and the pure joy of singing takes over – the technique and the artistry all come together.

_Love never dies_

_Lover never alters_

Erik stands perfectly still – hands folded in front of him, his eyes closed, the barest smile on his lips.

_It uses you at whim_

_And drives you to despair_

Raoul wrings his hands. At her glance, he takes a deep breath and forces a smile.

_And forces you to feel_

_More joy than you can bear_

The music flows through her veins, to the extent she feels she might not be able to contain her emotions. Her body is aflame with all the passion in this song composed for her.

_Love never dies_

_Love never falters_

_Once it has spoken_

_Love is yours_

Oh, why did he leave? Raoul why did you leave? This is Christine. This is who I am. I am singing my soul. You will always be part of me.

_Hearts may be broken_

_Love lives on._

This is freedom. This is my freedom.

_Love never dies_

_Once it is in you_

_Love may be fleeting_

_Love lives on._

The climax of the aria – the notes she always doubted, the notes he demanded from her – sing for me – the ecstasy of reaching the pinnacle…Oh, Erik, how I have missed this…missed you.

_Love may be fleeting_

_Love lives on._

And it was over – she gave all of herself – there was nothing more.

The roar of the crowd brings her back to the earth – back from the heaven of singing with her heart and soul. Take your bows, Christine. This is for you. This is who you are. Promises kept.

"Everything was as you said," Christine turns to Erik as he enters her dressing room. "Beautiful. The song. The scene. Me. I felt beautiful. It has been so long. I had forgotten how the music could fill me."

"You were even more wonderful than I remembered," Erik says, his eyes alight, sharing her triumph. Much as he would like to take credit – no one else could have brought down the house as Christine Daae just did.

How could he live without her? Would this be all he wanted, dreamed for so long. Despite her joy – could he hope for more – for a real life with this woman who held his soul in her hands? No longer a girl – she had stature and presence. For all his efforts to become reputable – an honest businessman – he was still Erik. The product of gypsy camps, the thuggees who taught him to kill without thought and the Persian shah who used that skill to destroy most of what was human about him – to the point of wanting him dead. Nadir Khan redeemed some of that man, saving his life those many years ago. Adele became his friend – as much as he would allow.

It was Christine, however, who gave him whatever humanity he utilized to become a part of the world again. What had Adele said before the performance? I hope she is worth what you are doing to Meg and me. What in the name of heaven was she talking about? Damn that woman, invading my thoughts now. Did she think I would abandon her and Meg? Had she absorbed the rot inside of me and taken it into herself. Where had the hatred come from? Meg – was this all about Meg?

All this must be addressed – tonight everything changed. Enough with the anger and resentment. His heart was too full. The ten long years of waiting to hear Christine sing again were over. If this was all there was to be, then he must accept that.

"We should not be doing this," Christine says, interrupting his thoughts.

"What – what should we not be doing?"

Crossing to where he stands – hesitant about forcing himself on her. For all her happiness, he could not forget her words before the performance. She was not to be considered chattel to be bartered. No one was going to win or lose her as a prize.

"This." Her kiss was more than he could have wished for.

"Oh, Christine." Taking her in his arms, he returns her kiss, breathing in her scent of gardenia, tasting the lemon honey still on her tongue. If this was how it was to be for them, he would gladly cede power to her in whatever way she wished for as long as she wished.

A light knock on the door disturbed the moment.

"Enter," Christine says.

Stepping away from her, Erik moves to the other side of the room, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

"Christine?" Raoul enters, holding a red rose out to Christine, his questioning eyes focus on Erik's back. "You – what are you…"

"It seems we find ourselves once again in this situation – albeit without lassos and a mob threatening," Erik says. "I was offering congratulations to Christine on her magnificent performance tonight – you left before she finished. The bet was off – why?"

Raoul glares at him. "That is none of your concern," he says turning away from Erik to address his wife. "I did not believe you would go through with the performance. I thought when you said you needed to think, you would come to your senses."

"Oh, Raoul, you do not know me at all, do you?"

"He has hypnotized you. Is this how you want to live? What about us…our marriage…our son?

"Your son?" Erik says. "What about _your_ son?"

Ignoring him, Raoul moves toward her. "Christine? I never wanted to believe…"

Erik steps in front of him. "Well, believe – if you were any sort of father you would have known."

"Erik!" Holding up her hand to keep him from advancing any closer to Raoul, Christine says, "No. This is not for you to discuss."

"Raoul, Gustave is…" Her breath catches, she clutches her chest, looking around the room. "Gustave! Where is he? He was supposed to be here."

"He was not with you?" Erik asks Raoul.

"No – he left us alone before the performance," Raoul replies. "Christine told him to stay backstage – to find the Trio – or whatever it is you call them."

"Stop it – stop arguing," Christine cries, moving to the door. "We must find him."

"Oh, Mlle. Meg, you were right – these seats were the best," Gustave gushes.

"When we came to Phantasma, this was my special place to watch the other acts perform."

The small lighting room stage right, just above the orchestra appeared to be part of a box. She discovered it one day when exploring and became a sanctuary on those days when it was too cold to even take a short walk on the beach. Or when she simply did not wish to be found. It was one of those forgotten spaces – the lights were seldom used for the show and the door to the narrow stairway stuck, so anyone trying to enter would think it locked.

Life during off season was not something she looked forward to. When they were working the fairs, it was constant movement from one town to another, but once Phantasma became part of Erik's and her mother's consciousness – the park was all they thought about and worked at. The Trio were all skilled in other arts – Miss Fleck was particularly adept with scenic designs, Squelch an expert carpenter and Dr. Gangle loved working on the automata with Erik. Maman was busy with business.

She was a dancer. Once she was off the stage, she just seemed to disappear both in person and in the minds of those around her. When she suggested she go to the city, to see if she could find work in one of the theaters or night club – maybe even audition for the ballet, Adele scoffed. Told her she would be better served learning how to sew and make herself useful at Phantasma. This was where her future lay and where her fortune would be made. She was too old anyway and the years of hoochie coochie dancing did nothing to improve or maintain her skills as a ballerina.

Marriage to Erik was always the carrot being dangled in front of her eyes, but he did not care for her in that way. He told her as much. Her own fantasy was false as well. Not being able to look at his face told her that. Yet, everyone assumed they would be a couple – even the other dancers. The promise of being Mrs. Y was the one thing she held onto…until Christine arrived. Now this boy not only assured her Erik would never choose to be with a woman other than Christine, but threatened her inheritance – the real reason she was holding on at all, as well. Life had lost all meaning for her – why should his be different?

"I just need to retrieve something from this cupboard, then we can go." The revolver removed from Erik's office in the Eyrie is tucked into the pocket of her dress.

"What is it?"

"Just something for later – another surprise. I would not wish to spoil it for you by telling you too soon." Opening the hatch to the narrow stairway, she leads them down into the orchestra pit – many of the musicians already gone.

In her hurry to the exit, the lights already dim, she fails to see the dark-skinned man with the astrakhan hat coming in – his manner suggesting a mission, failing, in his haste, to notice the young woman and boy.

Catching her before she falls, he assures she is standing securely upright before checking on the boy – who stepped out the way before the collision. "My deepest apologies," Nadir says, picking up Gustave's hat and handing it to him. "I forgot my packet of souvenirs and only remembered them when I was outside."

"No harm done," Meg adjusts her dress. "I was not paying attention either."

"I thought everyone would be gone – normally I am the last to leave, wanting to hold onto the experience of the performance as long as possible."

"Did you see the show?" Gustave asks, putting his hat on.

"I did."

"Mlle. Meg is the Oo-la-la girl."

"Indeed – I would not have known."

"Too many clothes?" is her retort.

Nadir laughs. "I do not judge art in that way – your routine was lively and entertaining and the costumes appropriate, but, yes," he says. "I suspect that were you to stroll around in your dancing garb, you would not be able to walk freely about – everyone would wish to speak with you."

"Speak with me? Yes. That is what most men want to do when they meet me."

"I meant no insult. Most people without the talent to dance or sing, enjoy meeting those who have become successful."

"Did you see my Maman?"

"And who is your maman?"

"Christine Daae."

He should have known – the boy was the image of his mother. It was her presence here tonight that brought him to Brooklyn from Manhattan. At first he could not believe the stories in the press – why would Christine Daae choose to revive her career on Coney Island, but further investigation proved the stories correct.

Her voice always haunted him and once he heard her sing, never missed a performance at the Palais Garnier. Except for that last night – a business trip kept him out of the city longer than he expected. When he returned the next day, news of the soprano's kidnapping and rescue, and death of the deformed Phantom, was all over the street. Although reportedly killed by an angry mob, there was no body – which only added to the mystery. Not until a body was discovered later did the story fade. An occasional piece would appear – her marriage into nobility, the odd performance here and there – all of which he attended – made for a fascinating fairy-tale.

Her voice had suffered after the death of the mythical opera ghost – the being he always suspected was his former charge, Erik, but could never prove. A visit to the Paris morgue rendered nothing – the body was found in the Seine, but the fish had their way with the corpse. A story all too reminiscent of Erik's leave taking from Persia to be coincidence.

There was something in her voice in those early days that recalled the man the shah had him bring to Persia from Russia. The ghost sang with her just before the riot started. He wished he had been able to hear him – just to know for certain.

Tonight he felt that energy again from her and wondered if the mysterious ghost had actually died. If the name Phantasma was any clue – the masked man was likely alive and well – an answer he felt anxious to explore. The amusement park certainly had elements about it suggesting the Erik he knew. More gaudy, but he was pleasing a large general public, not a murderous monarch.

The glorification of the freaks – wandering freely and unapologetic in the crowd and featured in the performances tonight was something Erik would do. Ordinary people were out of place here – they were the true oddities in this strange world.

"I used to hear your mother sing when I lived in Paris – I came tonight to hear her again."

"Was she not magnificent?"

"Indeed she was."

"You are not French," Meg says.

"No, I am from Persia – I traveled to Paris about eleven years ago and decided to make my home there. I attended as many performances at the Garnier as I was able."

"Then you likely saw me dance."

"Is that so?"

"Meg – Marguerite Giry. I was prima for several performances when Sorelli hurt her foot."

"Of course. Of course. You were…are quite ethereal in your dancing."

Meg's laugh is harsh. "Bathing Beauty on the beach?"

"Life and art are what one makes of them," he says. "You left about the same time as La Daae – of course, the entire opera took a break – but you did not return."

"Were you there…that night?"

"No…sadly no. I was away on business."

"My mother and I decided to try our luck in America – Paris was no longer a friendly place to us."

"I am sorry you were not able to pursue your career in the ballet once arriving here."

"Well, no use crying over spilt milk, as they say."

"_They_ are often wrong – sometimes a good cry cleanses the heart." His smile is warm and sympathetic. She could not be out of her twenties, but her face was worn. Defeat was present in her voice. Thinking back, he did remember her spirit and genuine talent – catching his eye with her ease of movement, delicate…light as a fairy. "It would make my evening to meet two divas from the Palais Garnier in one evening. I do not suppose I could prevail upon you for an introduction to Madame Daae."

"Vicomtesse de Chagny."

"Of course. I read of their marriage."

Meg raises an eyebrow at the compliment. "Thank you for the kind words, but I am afraid not – I must take Gustave back to his hotel."

The boy casts a puzzled look at Meg. "I thought we were going to Maman's dressing room. We could bring Mr…?"

"Khan – Nadir Khan. Never mind. It was just a wish," Nadir sighs. "Having met the star of this show – a dancer whose art I admire – be it ballet or theatrical work – will be more than enough to make this a memorable evening. Please do not let me keep you any longer. I shall just gather my things and recall tonight's performance on the ride home." After a small bow, he bids them au revoir then makes his way back into the theater.

"Good night, then." Meg takes Gustave's arm and pulls the unwilling boy with her through the exit.

"No. Maman wants me to be with her. I know she does."

"We need to go someplace else first – then you will see your mother."

"Promise."

"Of course," Meg forces a smile. "Have I lied to you yet?"

"I do not know – have you?"

"No," she says. "You said you wanted to learn how to swim."

"Not now. It is dark. I want to see my mother. You are scaring me," he cries. "Please, take me to my mother. I want my mother."

Nadir gives up trying to find the theater's stage door. Scanning the boardwalk crowd, he hopes to catch sight of Meg and the boy, perhaps joining them on their trek to the hotel – perhaps meeting la Daae – perhaps seeing Erik again.

Losing hope, the crowd is vast and fluid – filled with any number of women and children.

Thinking back, something about the conversation troubles him – the boy was certain he was to meet his mother in her dressing room, but the ballerina…Meg, was insistent on going to the hotel. Shifting his examination from the people on the midway to the beach, his attention is drawn to the pier. Stumbling over the less populated beach, a boy appears to be struggling to pull away from a woman. Moving in that direction, he trips on a hat – the boy's hat.

Pushing his way through the throng of people, he does his best to keep his eye on the ballerina and diva's son.

* * *

A/N Thanks to rscoil and jennyfair7 for prompts that helped me with scenes in this chapter.


	15. Hearts May Get Broken

Hearts May Get Broken

Erik storms out of the dressing room with Christine on his heels – Raoul not far behind. "Squelch! Squelch!"

"Master?" The strong man comes running, Miss Fleck and Dr. Gangle struggle to keep up.

"The boy has gone missing – who was backstage during the aria?"

"Madame Giry – she was standing behind you during the aria, Gangle says.

"Bring her here." The heat builds inside of him – rage he has not experienced since that last night at the Palais Garnier. Checking his pocket, he feels the catgut of the Punjab lasso. _You have been dormant for a long time, my friend, perhaps tonight you will have a job to do. _Even if it is Adele? Especially if it is Adele. What sort of friend kidnaps your child?

"I am already here – what is the shouting all about?" Adele says, hobbling out from behind a scrim, waving her cane about – forcing the Trio to scatter out of her way.

"Where is he? What have you done with him?" Erik not intimidated by the ebony stick, presses himself into her face, only withholding his hand from grabbing her by the throat because of his need to hear the answer to his question.

Slamming the staff against the floor, balancing herself to withstand Erik's threat. "Me? You think I have _done_ something with your child?" Her black eyes are as hard as his of amber. "Where has your mind gone? After all these years?" She slaps his hand away and looks at Christine. "I would never hurt a child of either one of you – particularly one who belongs to both."

"With all your complaints…" he growls.

"When have I not complained – that is who I am – you, of all people should know that," she says, a grim smile on her face. "Let us stop this and find him. Where was he last?"

"Here," Dr. Gangle says. "We left him here to do our act. Miss Fleck told him to stay put, she was to watch the Vicomtesse with him, then bring him to see her."

"I looked for him, but he was not backstage. Miss Meg was gone, too," Miss Fleck says. "Her costumes were scattered all over the floor of her dressing room and her vanity mirror was broken. I was coming to tell you."

"We searched everywhere backstage, but could not locate him," Squelch continues. "One of the stagehands just told me he saw him after the performance near the orchestra pit with Miss Giry. They were speaking to a man with a strange hat."

Erik frowns at the description of the man – then shakes off the stray thought. After all these years, it could not be the daroga. "You may not have taken him yourself, but this is your fault, Adele. Filling her head with fantasies."

"Erik?" Christine says, touching his shoulder. "What fantasies?" Had Madame made promises about Erik? I suppose it might have been possible. It certainly explains her coldness with me. But why take Gustave? Of course, if Madame knows he is our child – Meg must know as well. A rush of adrenaline roils her stomach. "Did you…? Were you…?" she asks Erik.

"No. Never – we were a family – she was like a daughter to me. Then she…"

"He should have married her."

"What?" Christine asks. "Did…does she love him? Do you love her?"

"No. I do not. She…believed she did," Erik says. Turning to Adele, he continues, "You knew my feelings, but you kept on. Did you know the one time she saw my face, she vomited?"

Accustomed as he was to the reactions of people to his face, he somehow expected more – or at least different from Meg. After that time, she would haunt the tent where he performed, never coming in again, but sitting outside listening – never speaking of that night, hoping, he supposed he had not seen her. Nevertheless, she still looked for his approval – hung on his every word. Behavior he found confusing.

But he had seen her, how could he not – the pretty young woman he might have loved differently, were it not for her obvious disgust, despite her claims of love. He toyed with the idea of removing the mask the one time they spoke of her feelings, gently – slowly, so as not to frighten her – giving himself over to the idea of moving on from Christine – but her eyes betrayed her – she could not meet his. Better to be alone.

"I told her Christine was the obstacle to you marrying her. That your son – your bastard son – was to get the inheritance that should be hers."

"What!" Christine exclaims. "What is wrong with you? After ten years of not convincing Erik to marry your daughter, my son is now the obstacle to your insane plans?"

Placing an arm around Christine, Erik keeps his voice low, hoping to calm her. But we spoke of how that was untrue – she would never have been disinherited."

"I did not tell her."

Pressing her hands against her ears, Christine cries, "Oh, God. Stop talking. We are wasting too much time arguing about how we came to be here." Grabbing Erik's lapels, she says, "We must find them – that is what matters now."

"Yes." Pulling her close before taking her arm, Erik says, "Squelch, have our security check the boardwalk – the crowd is still large, but seems to be thinning. Concentrate on the beach, I think I know where she may have taken him, but it would be wise to screen all of Phantasma.

"Suicide Hall – is where I saw her last," Raoul offers, "but that was early this morning. She said she went there to swim…to cleanse the dirt of the day."

"My poor sweet, Meg."

"Adele, just be still."

"I cannot walk very fast."

"Squelch – get one of the push carts – Adele and Fleck can ride...Christine?"

"I shall walk with you."

Nadir made his way toward the pier – keeping to the boardwalk. His eyes never leaving the young woman and boy.

Their pace was slow – the crowd was heavy – closing night likely bringing more people than normal…not wanting the summer to end – even the closing of many of the attractions and most of the food stands did not deter the enthusiasm of the fair goers.

Then he lost sight of them entirely. He stopped for a moment to rest against one of the wooden rails, protecting the pedestrians from falling onto the sand. Taking in the setup of the boardwalk, he noticed stairways placed at strategic distances from one another – leading onto the sand. The sand was dark, but the boardwalk and pier were well lit. After taking a moment to get his bearings, Nadir saw them walking on the sand. Gustave's resistance slowed them down, Meg was practically dragging him at this point and given a bit more girth and size, he might have gotten away. Meg, however, trained and fit…and determined, was able to pull him along.

Erik and Christine pushed their way through the last of the park visitors – still keeping watch for the possibility of Meg and Gustave being among them.

Raoul trots alongside Adele's cart, letting Squelch push the cart by himself. "You called him a bastard."

Fleck's ears perk up at the conversation. "That child is no bastard – he is a treasure."

"Mind your business, Fleck."

"Maybe the _gentleman _can push the cart for you, Madame, if you wish to speak privately," Squelch says, stopping the cart. "I shall carry _Miss_ Fleck." And with that, he picks her up and he jogs to catch up to Erik and Christine. Gangle following behind.

"You fool – you were always a fool. Look what you have done with your aristocratic sass," Adele scolds. "Get busy pushing this thing. We should have just taken one with peddles."

Raoul follows her command, pressing the cart into duty again.

"I hope you are sober enough not to drop dead pushing this thing."

"Very funny."

"You did not listen to me that night. None of this need have happened if you had listened to me."

"That again? You do not know what happened."

"I know that he caught you with his lasso – you still have a scar."

"Keep your hand at the level of your eyes," Meg repeated her mother's caution.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

Even when the noose was around his neck – he never connected the warning to his predicament. Fool. Yes, he was a fool. For loving Christine – no, not for loving her – just thinking she could ever be free of that monster.

She was supposed to lure him into a position where he could be shot – destroyed. Of course, he did not tell her that. Christine would never have taken part in a killing – the killing of her Angel of Music. Not knowingly, in any event.

"Just lead him to a place where the police can grab him and arrest him."

Instead she removed the mask. Why? Why did she allow him to take her with him? Why did she kiss him? To save me – I suppose. But, twice, she kissed him twice. She resisted leaving – even when he told them to go.

_And she went back again…later…the night before their wedding. _

_And my son is not my son. _

"He_ is_ a bastard," Adele sneers. "I would be willing to guess he has some sign of Erik on him – besides his eyes – gold with flecks of green.

"He was born in wedlock and is legally my son – whatever the manner of his conception. The boy has done nothing wrong," Raoul counters, unwilling to allow her to completely besmirch his marriage. "I thought you were his friend. I know why I hate him – but you? It makes no sense."

A choking cry becomes a sob as her body visibly slumps in the seat.

Raoul stops the cart and rushes around to check on her. "Are you all right?"

"When Christine entered his life – he changed. Everything revolved around her and that has never changed."

"You wanted him to love Meg?"

A simple nod is her reply. "From the beginning. I poisoned her mind – when I told her he could care and then when I told her he never would."

"You could not know..."

"I knew," she says. "Just as I knew I was likely sending you to your death. I am grateful for whatever happened down there to change the path of fate, and you have your life." The set of her face is grim as her eyes bore into his. "Please, let us continue – she must not hurt Gustave. This is all my fault."

"Miss Giry! Miss Giry!" Nadir calls out as he catches up with them at the edge of the pier. "Please stop – the young man lost his hat. I want to return it to him."

Even with her determination, the walk over the sand, dragging the child along has wearied her. Her breathing is labored and her knees weaken beneath her. "Who are you? Go away – Gustave wants his lesson."

"No! Let me go," he cries, twisting his arm, but her grasp is a vise. "I want my mother."

"Miss Giry, the boy is afraid. It is much too late and too cold for swimming now," Nadir says, opening his arms, one hand turned up, the other holding out the hat. "The morning will be bright again and would be much better for teaching and learning. Let him go. Let him see his mother."

Despite his words to calm – she becomes more agitated, looking down at the water. Mention of the mother, perhaps? Christine. "His father will be worried as well."

"His father? Hah? His father cares only for himself and Christine – only Christine, always Christine. He is a freak – the boy would not want that man for a father."

"My father is not a freak – he is a vicomte and handsome as a prince."

As I suspected. Nadir moderately amused by the idea of his deformed genius part of a love triangle – quadrangle, since the vicomte is involved. Oh, Erik – you have a son – how must you feel about that?

"No, Gustave. Your father is Mr. Y – the Phantom of the Opera. The Opera Ghost. The deformed creature who built this place. Phantasma. Let all your fantasies unwind. _Bathing Beauty on the beach._ That is who I am. No marriage, no child – just a whore."

"Mr. Y…" Gustave's perplexed frown, transforms into a smile.

"Meg – you are not a whore," Erik says, coming up next to Nadir, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. His golden eyes bright and warm as he returns the boy's smile, before shifting his gaze to Meg. "You are a most wonderful dancer and performer. You are a star."

"او کاملا عصبانی است,*" Nadir says under his breath, glancing back at Christine.

"Mmm." Erik follows the daroga's look to Christine – face etched in fear. She moves toward Erik and Nadir, but Erik holds up his hand and shakes his head.

Squelch holds her back, gathering her into the protection of the Trio. "Best you stay with us, ma'am."

Adele and Raoul arrive to join the small group – taking in the scene going on at the edge of the pier.

Careful steps bring Erik closer to Meg and Gustave. "Let the boy go, Meg. This is not about him, is it? Not really."

"You will give him everything – Maman said so." Her attention full on Erik.

Nadir slips closer to the boy.

"No, Meg," Adele calls to her. "I lied. I lied to you – let him go, dearest."

"Dearest – you call me dearest to save him?" Meg laughs contemptuously, her eyes darting back and forth. "Of course, I shall let him go." Flinging her arm in the air, she releases her grip on Gustave's arm. "Go, little boy – you have your freedom. Use it well."

Gustave stumbles away, tripping as he tries to turn and run, losing his footing he falls off the pier into the black sea.

"Gustave!" Erik cries.

Meg grabs his shoulders…pushing herself against him. "He wants to learn to swim. This is the best way to learn."

Erik pushes her arms down, but she clings to him as if she were the one drowning, dragging him down with her.

"I shall get him." Nadir brushes the hat from his head, removing his shoes before diving into the darkness.

The boy surfaces a few feet away, gasping for air, his arms flapping against the water.

"I am here, Gustave. Kick your feet, breath, try to relax."

"Gustave," Christine screams as struggles to pull away from Squelch.

Nadir gets his arm around the boy's chest as he is going under again. He swims them to the ladder on the side of the pier. Keeping Gustave close, he waits on Erik, who finally gains some control over Meg, managing to wrap her in his arms. Speaking to her quietly.

Squelch maintains his hold on Christine. "Stay here, ma'am. The man has him. He is going to be all right."

"Thank you," Raoul says. "I shall stay with her. Best to let them handle this."

Christine nods, biting her lower lip. Shifting her position, she cranes her neck to watch as Nadir climbs back onto the pier, motioning at Gustave to stay down.

Drawing in a deep breath, seeing that Gustave is safe, Erik loosens his hold on Meg, only keeping a hand on her shoulder. "Time to go home, Meg, you know this is not what you want," he says, voice soft, persuasive.

Stumbling back, throwing off his hand, she draws the revolver from her pocket, pointing it at her head. "How do you know what I want – you have never cared about what I wanted."

Voice never wavering, he says, "That is not true. I want you to be happy."

"Bathing Beauty – that is how you saw me – on the beach, in the dressing room enticing backers and politicians to build this place. Do you think I wanted to dance here? Did you ever ask?"

"Meg, no, that was my fault," Adele cries, coming up behind Erik. "Please let me talk to her – she is my daughter."

His head snaps to glare at her. "Not now, woman," he hisses. "Your mother is concerned. Give me the gun, Meg. This is not the way to deal with your hurt and pain. I am so sorry I did not see what you needed. Diamonds never sparkle bright unless they are set just right. I failed to see your real beauty. What do you want? To dance to your own the ballet – it will be done."

Lowering the gun, she looks up at him, blue eyes wide. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course, you are my Meg. We all love you."

"Even Christine – your Christine?" She lifts the pistol again, turning to point it at her old friend – quickly shifting to her mother. Sensing movement behind her, she waves the guns to smirk at a crouching Nadir, waiting to pounce. "Bang."

Erick reaches for her wrist.

Stepping back again, she growls, "No," before turning the gun on Erik, singing dreamily, "_Only for you_."

A sharp cracking noise shatters the quiet.

The small coterie freezes, unsure of what happened. Soon the quiet hush of waves lapping against the pier replaces the harsh sound of the gunshot. The sharp sting of Sulphur a memory thanks to a gentle breeze. All is as if nothing happened.

Then a voice cries, "No. Oh, no."

* * *

*"She is quite mad." (Farsi/Persian)


	16. Love Lives On

Love Lives On

The melee was over. A surreal quiet filled a room that only an hour ago was busy with everyone scrambling to first care for the injured woman, the frightened half-drowned boy and the woman who created the situation – now cocooned in her own world. All were damaged in different ways and skills were being rapidly assessed to determine who of the coterie would provide the best service to each of the victims.

Meg huddles into the armrest of one of the three leather-bound couches that line the walls of the Phantasma infirmary. Her face ghostly pale, blue eyes rimmed in red, cheeks streaked with mascara not entirely removed from her final performance give her a clownish appearance. Mr. Squelch sits calmly next to her, a symbol of restraint more than a necessity. Meg gives no indication of wanting to move from her current position – she rocks back and forth repeating "I did not mean to" over and over.

Gustave sips on a mug of hot cocoa, cloaked in a heavy woolen blanket over a hospital gown, thick white socks cover his feet. He and Raoul share space on another couch, across the small room – as far away as possible from Meg, although Gustave pays no attention to her, his attention focused on the closed door across the room from him. Raoul drapes an arm over the back of the sofa, tousling the boy's hair until Gustave pulls his head away. "I am all right."

Raoul draws his hand back, tucking both hands between his knees, staring dully in front of him. The cup of tea Nadir prepared for him, sits cold on the coffee table. The sound of a door opening, jars him, he looks up as Erik enters the room, closing the door behind him.

After a glance at Meg, he walks over to Gustave and cups his face in a long fingered hand and smiles. "Do you want some more chocolate? Are you warm enough? There is another room with a bed if you want to lie down."

"No, I will wait here."

"As I supposed – just know that if you feel sleepy, you have someplace to go," Erik says, ignoring Raoul. "I need to speak with my old friend for a moment." Indicating Nadir with a nod of his head, before joining the daroga at the desk, where the Persian is writing furiously on a pad of paper.

Dressed in a similar fashion to Gustave, he looks up as Erik approaches, raising an eyebrow.

Erik shrugs – shaking his head.

"Dr. Gangle is a legitimate doctor?"

"Yes – actually, his rangy appearance scared patients off – not the children, of course, because of his juggling skills, but he could not earn a living practicing medicine – so he is both our master of ceremonies and resident physician. A bargain at any price."

"You do not want to take her to a hospital?"

"No," Erik says. "While the hospitals here are a sight better than in Paris, I have ensured this facility offers the best medical care for our staff and any visitors to the park who might need care."

"The young woman is suffering – her needs must be dealt with."

"Yes," he sighs. "I gave her some sedation to calm her – part of the reason for her stupor. Their apartment is nearby, once things are settled here, I will have Mr. Squelch take her home – Miss Fleck will stay with her."

"I must tell you that I work as a consultant for the New York City Police."

"Of course you do," Erik chuckles, "I would not have it any other way. It is great fortune that you happened to be here."

"I came because of La Daae – I followed her career in Paris – when I saw she was performing in Coney Island, of all places. Well, I had to hear her."

"Yes – hearing Christine sing is one of the wonders of the world, I believe. Ten years without her voice almost did to me what others who wished to destroy me could not accomplish. I cannot imagine life without her."

"So you _were_ the mysterious Opera Ghost." A statement more than a question. "I suspected, but always nice to have suspicions confirmed." He lifts the tea pot and an empty cup.

"No, not now," Erik says, shaking his head. "What concerned you about them?

"The conversation was strange – Mlle. Giry was upset, self-deprecating and anxious to get the boy alone. He seemed fine with her – seemed to know her, so I went about my business retrieving some items I left behind in the theater. When I found his hat on the ground outside the theater, I became concerned – she said they were going to the hotel, but my survey of the crowd revealed they were heading toward the pier."

Erik says. "I am most grateful."

"Humility?"

"He is my son."

"So I understand," Nadir smiles and nods at the boy who is watching them closely. "The Vicomte appears subdued."

"For a change."

"Vindication?"

Erik shrugs. "For ten years I had no idea I had a child – then I met him and heard him sing and play…Christine confirmed my suspicions. The combination of seeing her again and learning we have a child…"

"And you, of course, were agreeable to discussing the issue thoughtfully…embracing all those concerned in order to reach a suitable way to advise the boy. Oh, and work out any legal issues?"

"Things went awry."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"I am to blame for all of this."

"Hmmm, I think not – at least not directly. You never understood women very well – and your appeal to them – although Allah knows why they would be."

"You have said that before – I know what my face is like."

"Do not forget your charm," Nadir chortles. "Somehow I think your face is part of the attraction. In any event, you are very sensual and that is very attractive. Believe it or not, your lack of a glowing personality is also attractive – women like nothing better than to change their men." Nadir laughs outright, refilling his cup of tea. "This Meg – what happened?"

Erik sighs. "Adele, her mother, planned for us to wed – since Meg was a child, it seems. Neither of us was informed. The girl loved me and I…perhaps had Christine not entered the picture…but she became sick the first time she saw my face. Afterward she turned in disgust at the thought of looking at me, still claiming to love me despite my indications both direct and indirect to the contrary."

"The mother's influence continued?"

"Yes – Adele likes to control things – this just ran amok when I managed to get Christine here without advising her." His eyes track to the door again. "I must go back in – I wanted to check on the boy and Gangle said I was in the way – but I have to be in there."

The gun was pointed directly at him – Erik's first thought was to push the gun down and away – from him and from anyone else on the pier. Everyone stood to his left. He might be able to take a bullet in his leg, but if she shot and hit him in the torso at such close range, it could prove fatal. Throwing her off balance was the most he could hope for.

The shot surprised him, came sooner than he anticipated – he was not certain he even touched her and was concerned he had not disturbed her aim with any success. Still, he felt no pain – that burning thrust against his skin before the deeper ache the puncture of a bullet brings. Nothing. The bullet missed him. Thank you whatever God there might be – no one has been shot.

The cry from Meg's lips put a lie to his initial belief.

"No. Oh, no." Her blue eyes wide in terror, mouth open in a gagging silent scream. The gun fell from her hand as she pushed past him to her mother's body, lying behind him on the wooden planks. "Maman!"

"Damn. Foolish woman," he hissed. "Why did you not go back when I told you?" Falling to his knees, he lifted Adele onto his lap.

Beseeching black eyes looked up at him. "I thought she would listen to me. She was so angry with you."

"Gangle! Get over here."

The Trio ran to assist Erik.

Meg is wracked with sobs, kneeling next to Erik stroking her mother's arm. "I am sorry. I did not mean to. I did not mean to."

"Miss Fleck, could you take Meg to the infirmary – we will gather there."

"I want to stay. Please let me stay with her."

"Come along, Miss Meg," Fleck said, gently helping the young dancer to her feet. "Dr. Gangle will take care of her. You know what a good doctor he is. Remember how he fixed your wrenched ankle?"

Meg kissed her mother on the forehead and allowed the midget to help her to her feet. The little woman took Meg by the hand, leading her back to the theater, murmuring as they walked, "She will be fine. It was an accident."

As they left, Erik lay Adele's body on the deck, allowing Gangle to assess her. "Two wounds. Upper right arm and chest, next to her breast," he said. "Do you see a bullet anywhere?"

"Nothing," Mr. Squelch replied, "but it is dark. She could be lying on top of it."

"We need to get her back quickly."

"She and the Vicomte came in a people-carrier. I will get it."

"Good," Erik said, standing up to wait for the cart – taking the opportunity to check on the situation with Gustave.

Once free of Squelch's restraints, Christine raced to Gustave as Nadir helped him up the ladder. She pulled off his wet jacket and knickers, and wrapping him in her coat before cradling him in her arms…cooing to him. Raoul, following behind, removed his jacket handing it to Nadir who is taking off his own wet jacket and waistcoat.

He shook his head. "Better to give it to Madame."

"Of course. Of course." Raoul draped the jacket over Christine's shoulders, then proceeded to find Nadir's hat and shoes, watching as the Persian joins Erik.

"Bad?"

"We cannot tell due to her clothing – it appears the bullet went through her upper arm, then went into her side – we will have to remove her gown to determine how much damage was done."

"She will be all right?"

"Hopefully, but we need to take care of the wound – remove the bullet, if it is embedded – we could not see it anywhere on the deck," Erik said, eyeing the daroga, he removed his jacket. "Put this on. Where are your shoes?"

Raoul waves his shoes and hat at him. "There. Let me get my things."

Leaving Squelch and Dr. Gangle to help Adele onto the cart, Erik and Nadir stride to where Raoul, Christine and Gustave are waiting. Each pair of eyes anxiously, anticipating whatever news Erik might have. "This was not exactly how I would have hoped your first swimming lesson would turn out."

Gustave gives him a small smile. "Me, neither."

"Adele has at least one wound in her arm, possibly another in her chest," Erik tells them. "There is a small hospital set up adjacent to the theater, I think it is best we all gather there to assess everyone's needs."

"I am all right," Gustave said. "I got some water up my nose, but sneezed it out."

"You were very brave," Nadir said. "He followed my instructions perfectly."

"We still need to get both of you into dry clothes," Christine said, holding Gustave closer to her – smoothing his hair, running her hands over his shoulders and arms – reassuring herself of his presence.

"I am so sorry." Erik's apology includes Raoul, but is directed particularly to Christine.

"You see, Christine," Raoul interjected. "This is how it always will be with him – violence and anger."

"May I?" Erik asked Christine, taking her hand in his, ruching the sleeve of her dress, displaying a blackish-green mark on her wrist.

"Erik…"

"This…man has an easy tongue when accusing others of abuse. Because of his pretty face and fancy manners, he has been able to avoid retribution for his own acts. No more. You assault your own wife…" Heat rose to his face, but catching Gustave's eyes focused solemnly on him, he finished with "as Christine has said, this is not the time." With a kiss to the bruise, he released her hand.

Stepping between Erik and Raoul, Nadir said, "If I may butt in, sir, the woman was clearly disturbed – you cannot blame her actions on Erik."

"Are you Nadir Khan?" Christine asked.

"Yes, Madame, at your service – any time, any place. Your music stirs my heart."

Eyelids lowered, and she gave him a small smile, "Erik spoke of you. Years ago, he told me some of his adventures in Persia and a friend he had there."

"A friend, eh? I would have thought his recollections would not have seen me so kindly."

"Not at all." Her smile brightened, then turned serious, tears that had been held back throughout Gustave's abduction, flow over her cheeks. "Thank you for saving my son's life."

"Yes, thank you," Raoul added, his face still wears the stung look, pale and haggard, taken on with Erik's words. Looking around, he stepped away from the group – distancing himself from the others.

"Maman – Mlle. Meg said that Mr. Y is my real father – what does that mean?"

Four pair of eyes focused on Christine's flushed face.

"Hardly the time to discuss this." Her eyes went first to Raoul – she bowed her head before turning her attention to Erik. Despite the mask – he managed to convey both dread and hopeful anticipation. Finally, she looked down at her son. "No more lies – too many years of too many lies." Her tone wistful. "Yes, Mr. Y is your father."

Raoul muttered, "I believe that is all that needs to be said. I thought we could work this out in private."

"Raoul, it is not so simple – there are things that must be addressed."

"Such as getting Gustave and Nadir in dry clothes," Erik says. "Adele needs to be tended to and Meg…"

"Then I shall wait in the hotel room – I am not needed here – nor wanted."

"Raoul, please," Christine said, tugging on his sleeve. "Stay for Gustave. He has been through quite enough without you leaving."

"What would you have me do?"

"Just be present."

"Mr. Y?"

"Yes, Gustave."

"Are you my father?"

"Your mother has said so."

"Then I have two fathers?"

"So it would seem." Amusement and relief cross his face.

While Nadir makes no effort to disguise a guffaw, Christine covers the giggle that escapes her lips. Raoul can only shake his head.

"I do not understand, but it makes me a very lucky person, does it not?"

"When we have some time – we…your mother…" Erik eyed Christine…"will explain it to you, and, yes, it makes you a very lucky person." Erik lifted his head to challenge Raoul with his eyes.

"Yes, Gustave, you are most fortunate."

Christine clears her throat. "The dry clothes…perhaps we should be going." A touch of fire lit her aquamarine eyes, narrowed at Erik's remark. "This is not a conversation I wish to be having on the edge of a pier in the middle of the night. I also want to find out about Madame."

"I will find something to suit him and my Persian friend." With that he scooped Gustave into his arms and led them off the pier.

Christine looks up at Erik re-enters the room and smiles. Miss Fleck doubles the smile and Dr. Gangle says, "Welcome back."

"So I am no longer a pariah?"

"Just a man," Adele grumbles. "Bad enough Gangle here is examining me in my under garments…"

"You wore less as a ballerina – all of a sudden you are Miss Modesty?" Erik's relief is palpable. The exchange of words with Adele has not been so light in years. For the first time since the shooting, he feels some sense of relief – an absence of guilt. What happens next for Adele and Meg is unclear, but Christine is here. Adele is alive. His friend has returned from the dark past. And he has a son.

Time for processing all those enormities later.

"What are the damages?"

"The bullet went through the flesh of her upper arm and into the area under her armpit." Dr. Gangle holds up the bullet, then stands back so Erik can observe the wound.

"It lodged in the bones in your corset. Ha!"

"There is a small injury to a rib, some minor bleeding but, yes, the whalebone prevented more severe damage."

"You sutured the wounds in the arm?"

"Yes – already done," Gangle says. "She is free to go – although a few days off work…"

"How is Meg?" Adele asks.

"Lost in herself – not speaking," Erik replies. "I did give her some medication to calm her."

_Love never dies_

_Once it is in you_

_Life may be fleeting_

_Love lives on_

Christine sings softly. "Quite a lot has happened in all our lives with this reunion – turned everything upside down, some might say. Now we have the opportunity to prove the words to your song, Erik."

"Nadir tells me I have something in my nature that cannot resist creating crises."

"He is correct. I should like to know him better," Adele says. "You are the definition of crisis made flesh.

"We were all very content in Paris until Raoul…"

"Ah." Christine holds up her hand. "Not entirely," she replies, smiling at him. "Do not go blaming Raoul for all of this…you had me believing you were an angel."

"True, not entirely. I shall admit to the angel charade, but Raoul…" Erik cannot help but gaze at her, every ounce of love in his soul apparent in his eyes.

"Erik, stop," Adele commands.

"Well, I, for one, am glad you all decided to come to America – so crisis away, Master," Dr. Gangle announces.

"I agree," adds Miss Fleck.

"Holding his hand out for Christine, Erik says, "I think there is a little boy outside this door who would like to be with his Maman."

"And I with him. We have much to talk about, but not here and not now."

"Could you bring Meg in?" Adele asks. "I must start making amends."

"Your wish is my command, Madame Giry."

"Ha. Begone," Adele chuffs, waving her hand in the air. "Oh, Christine…"

"Yes, Madame?"

"I…am sorry…I…thank you for assisting Dr. Gangle."

"My pleasure – I am pleased you were not more seriously wounded," she says, turning back to Erik. "Shall we go see Gustave?"

"Yes, I would like nothing more."


End file.
